PS 3503 


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1 1914 




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Book fx Fy 

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A FRIEND OF THE PEOPLE 
A PLAY IN FOUR ACTS 
BY THEODORE BONNET 



WITH 

A PREFATORY EPISTLE 
TO 

ASHTON STEVENS 







Pacific Publication Company, 88 First Street 

San Francisco 

1914 



f<5 3^ 
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Play Copyright, 1913 
By THEODORE BONNET 



Book Copyright, 1914 

By THEODORE BONNET 

San Francisco 



APR 18 1914 



§>CI.D 36763 



PREFATORY EPISTLE 



PREFATORY EPISTLE 
To ASHTON STEVENS 



Dear Stevens: Until you passed judgment on 
the merits of my play, so far as they could be 
judged in the reading, I was inclined to suspect my- 
self of the bias of paternity. But when you, a con- 
scientious critic and student of the drama, wrote 
me that it impressed you as "upbuilding conflict 
throughout," that for you it had "choke and grip 
in the bare reading," and that in so far as you 
could judge from a script "the construction was 
beautifully wrought," then was I no longer dis- 
posed to withhold my approval of my darling brain- 
child. Further, I concluded that if it no more than 
seemed to possess the qualities you found it could 
do no harm between book covers. Perhaps it may 
also prove innocuous on the stage, but that is a 
question about to be determined. Meanwhile I am 
standing at attention. 

In this attitude I would talk things over. I have 
much to say about the drama and the theatre, much 
that has occurred to me since the writing of the 
play. With all my experience of the theatre I had 
much to learn, and what I have learned I should 
not keep to myself. To my experience as a critic 
has been added my experience as a playwright in- 
tent on having my play tested, my curiosity gratified. 
When one has written a play one's labors have 
just begun. This is no querulous observation. 
I have not expected theatre managers to get ex- 



vi Prefatory Epistle 

cited about this play. He is a bold and venture- 
some manager who has the courage of an un- 
known playwright's convictions. Besides, who 
can arrive at any criterion of value or sense 
of scale in order to pass unerring judgment on 
plays? Many of the most popular plays traveled 
far before reaching "production," and as the most 
popular plays are not always good plays neither are 
good plays, or at least those commended by the most 
learned critics, always popular. Something of the 
same perplexity is exhibited with respect to other 
works of art. Once there was a young man who 
wrote a poem, a long one, which he called "En- 
dymion." He was told to go back to the shop and 
stick to plasters, pills and ointment boxes, and be- 
ing a sensitive lad Master John never recovered 
from the blow. No such cruelty have I experienced. 
Quite to the contrary. Having had professional re- 
lations with the theatre for twenty years, more 
fortunate than the average beginner I had no diffi- 
culty in having my maiden effort put under the 
microscope. Several of the most prominent actors 
and actresses, as well as several of the most suc- 
cessful managers of the American theatre have read 
this play. From all it has received praise so ex- 
uberant as to seem almost like satire in disguise. 
Some of it may be insincere. But, as you know, 
one theatrical firm, reputed to be the shrewdest in 
America, has been deliberating for two months on 
the question whether the play should be produced, 
and one firm considers it worth the hazard. So 
anyway whatever be its merits or demerits it gives 
men pause. 

From all the judgments that have been passed 
on this play I gather that there are three pitfalls 
which the American playwright must avoid — into 
all of which I ingloriously tumbled. The play has 



Prefatory Epistle vii 

no technical blemishes, no unmitigable crudities — 
only three fatal errors ; that is, to be more precise, 
judged as a work of art it seems passable, but 
considered from the standpoint of personal interest 
it conflicts with the prepossessions of the actor and 
raises the apprehensions of the manager. Thus, you 
see, I have not written in vain. Experience is my 
reward, and in that there is instruction for others. 
So it will not be waste of time to talk it over. As 
the author of the play I am incapable of the detach- 
ment essential to calm, serene criticism, but I am 
able to discuss the critiques of my critics. 

My first blunder, I am told, was in writing a 
play without the slightest thought of actor or 
actress. It is well, I have learned, when making a 
play to have the manner of someone of the stage 
in mind, to create a part with which a particular 
personality may be easily blent. It is well to make 
inviting roles, roles that strike a chord of sympathy 
rather than a chord of antipathy. Actors have 
changed since that ancient day when the villain 
gladly evoked the hiss by which tribute was paid 
to verisimilitude. Nowadays they don't like to ap- 
pear at a disadvantage. But alas ! how should I 
know? Mine was the transgression of ignorance. 
Not designedly did I permit myself to become ab- 
sorbed in my story and the folks in the play. An 
humble beginner, I strove to respect every known 
dramatic convention. No hidebound stickler for the 
artistic am I. If my eyes were not on the box-office 
neither did they glance at posterity. I stuck to the 
matter in hand not that I was unwilling to sac- 
rifice anything to the mask of personality, or that I 
undervalued the actress who chooses a part as a 
smart woman chooses a gown, but for the simple 
reason that I was not aware of the prevailing 
standard of art. With that standard I have no 



viii Prefatory Epistle 

quarrel. I will not say that it has thrown a spurious 
glitter on the stage, or that it is destructive of in- 
terest in the thing that makes the actor possible. 
There will always be room for the individual player 
— the kind of player for whom plays are expressly 
written. And there is nothing wrong in writing 
for the individual. Shakespeare is said to have done 
that. We know that Mr. John Masefield wrote 
"The Tragedy of Nan" for Miss Lilian McCarthy ; 
that the practical Shaw condescends to the same 
practice, and that Mrs. "Pat" Campbell inspired 
many a playwright. No, there is nothing essentially 
wrong in writing for the individual, but there is 
this to be said about drama as written today on 
this principle, — that it is seldom anything more 
than a contrivance by which an actor or actress is 
shown off to advantage. Whether +his is what the 
public wants I am not prepared to say. We often 
mistake what the public merely tolerates for what 
the public wants. It may be worth while in pass- 
ing to observe that while the public has been ex- 
ceedingly tolerant for many years, at present most 
of what is good in the drama has to be propped 
and nursed by private enthusiasts of the Drama 
League and the so-called Little Theatres that are 
springing up over the country. It is the same in 
England, the only other country where taste has 
been perverted to star-worship, and where as a con- 
sequence, 'tis said, the theatre is becoming insolvent. 
In England as in America there are theatres sup- 
ported by private subscription that connoisseurs of 
the drama may enjoy the plays of the skilled Con- 
tinental dramatists written not for stars but for 
actors that represent the genius of dramatic inter- 
pretation. 

Verily things have changed since that ancient 
day when the actor was but a medium of the dram- 



Prefatory Epistle ix 

atic art, nothing more than a masked convention. 
The actor has climbed so high in his own firmament 
that the play has become to him of late chiefly a 
medium for his own ends and purposes. While in 
not a few instances this is fortunate for the play- 
wright, since not infrequently a good company 
makes a bad play acceptable, it may be one of the 
reasons why some people would rather dance than 
go to the theatre, and why others are to be diverted 
from the drama to moving pictures. 

I have been speaking as a critic rather than as 
the author of one play. I have not yet been able 
to share the feeling of the playwright who is in- 
formed by the difference in the size of type on 
the dead-wall that the author of the play is a per- 
son of minor consequence. 

TWO OTHER OBJECTIONS 

Bear with me a while, my dear Ashton. Kindly 
indulge my garrulity, for I have much to say. 
What I am coming to is a discussion of the objec- 
tions that have been made to the play herein printed. 
I would have you consider these objections by way 
of academic inquiry. As to the objection that the 
play is not designed to gratify the vanity of an 
actor or actress I have nothing more to say. Ac- 
cording to the judgments that have been passed 
two other mistakes have been made: first, in not 
avoiding a tragic and unhappy ending; secondly, in 
entering the field of politics for my story and char- 
acters. All kindly agree that it is a "strong, power- 
ful drama," but some are of the opinion that to win 
public favor a play must have a happy ending, and 
others say the political drama has been much over- 
done. Now if the play is tolerable in all other re- 
spects ; that is, if nothing more is to be urged against 



x Prefatory Epistle 

it than its inexpediencies I shall be very well satis- 
fied. If when put into its element on the other side 
of the footlights no fault be found with its technique, 
and the story be deemed not too dull to hold an 
audience, yet it fail for one or the other of the 
ineptitudes which I have mentioned, then at least 
it may serve as a lesson and warning from which 
aspiring playwrights may profit. 

To be sure, when a play fails it is not always easy 
to say why it failed. There is really no formula of 
success in play-writing. There is an instance of a 
play that bored a veteran London critic, which, 
according to his own confession, was just the sort 
of play that he had been always reviling people for 
not writing, managers for not producing, critics for 
not praising. He owned that it was a sincere pre- 
sentment of actual life; that the characters were 
alive, well drawn and had the value of types ; that 
it was full of food for reflection and innocent of 
"theatrical effects." Yet it made him long to be 
amused and excited, and he couldn't tell why it 
failed to interest him with all its "facts and ideas." 
The explanation probably is that the good qualities 
of the play were wholly negative. The author had 
mastered the decalogue of prohibitions, but neglected 
the organic form of emotion which stimulates feel- 
ing as well as thought. Obviously positive merit 
is better than the negative kind, but yet few of us 
have the genius that would justify us in defying the 
seven devils of the theatre. Hence the importance 
of considering objections from high sources, objec- 
tions not to be found in textbooks on- technique or 
made obvious by object lessons on the stage itself, 
and therefore unknown to the average novice of the 
drama. 

But let us come to the objection to the tragic 
ending. It is so old as to be quite respectable. The 



Prefatory Epistle *i 

theory of those who voice it is that people hate 
to have their spirits depressed. But the play with 
an unhappy ending may not be as depressing as a 
play that tugs at the heart-strings for three acts 
and winds up with the Lohengrin wedding march. 
Of course there is a limit to man's capacity for the 
tragic and depressing. Interest and perception are 
dulled by the repetition of what is harrowing. We 
know that in old Athens the general mind turned 
wearily at last from contemplation of the tragic, 
like a glutted vulture. Pity becomes unendurable. 
Even in Athens there was a call for the happy end- 
ing. But no wonder, all things considered. An 
Athenian audience sat out three tragedies in suc- 
cession. At the end of this amazing test of the 
power of intellectual and passionate concentration, 
when not an emotion of pity or terror remained to 
be thrilled, everybody was in the mood to smile. A 
little of comic relief would be quite acceptable. 
But, mark you, nobody ever thought of suggesting 
that a play be adapted to the situation. There was 
too much sense of art in Athens to permit of such 
a thing. Besides if the Athenians wanted to laugh 
they were not afraid to weep, and the great writers 
of tragedy did not feel called upon to intersperse 
comic catchwords at certain measured intervals. 
The Athenians called for a happy ending, but it 
came in the form of a jolly farce, and nothing was 
more popular in that line than the satyr-drama. 
The poet of the three stupendous tragedies was also 
expected to write the farce, and thus Sophocles came 
to raise the laugh as best he could with Silenus and 
the goat-foot rout. The tradition of Athens was 
one drunken farce to every three tragedies. Be- 
nighted Athenians! What did they know of Pro- 
hibition ? 

Can it be that many of our American managers 



xii Prefatory Epistle 

are steeped to the ears in antique prejudices? Are 
they afraid to throw off the yoke of allegiance to 
what is called classical? No, their prejudice is of 
modern origin. Some months ago Madame Simone 
on her return to France ridiculed New York man- 
agers for what she described as their weakness for 
the happy ending, but they are not of the first gen- 
eration of wise business men similarly obsessed. 
In Madame Simone's own country, in the days 
of Sardou, the unhappy ending was dreaded in 
the Parisian box-office, and there were play- 
wrights who would as soon have committed 
the unpardonable sin as send an audience 
home in tears or in melancholy mood. More re- 
cently Paul Hervieu declared himself against the 
expedient of suicide as a means of ending plays, 
but when he wrote "The Labyrinth" he went con- 
trary to his own teaching, and never wrote a more 
successful play. Dread of the unhappy ending used 
to influence English as well as French playwrights. 
"The Profligate" as originally written by Pinero in 
1887 ended with the suicide of the young husband. 
The London manager to whom the play was sub- 
mitted shuddered at the wind-up, and Pinero re- 
wrote the last act, bringing the curtain down on 
the reconcilation of husband and wife. London saw 
the happy ending, but Australia saw the suicide; 
and if nobody is able to say which wind-up is to 
be preferred from the pecuniary standpoint, we 
know at any rate that when Pinero attained in- 
dependence he killed off his puppets with a free 
hand. Further, we know that he nor any manager 
ever had reason to regret the self-slaughter of the 
second Mrs. Tanqueray. Indeed, it may not be un- 
reasonable to surmise that Mr. Pinero had the suc- 
cess of the Tanqueray play in mind when he suffered 
Zoe to put an end to the complications of Mid- 



Prefatory Epistle xiii 

Channel by throwing herself from a balcony when 
he might just as well have let her go on smoking her 
favorite cigarettes. 

There is only one thing in my judgment to be 
said with respect to play-endings: they should be 
logical, plausible and convincing; never a subter- 
fuge, never a means of getting out of a hole. The 
idea that a sugar-coated wind-up is craved as an 
anodyne or emollient by unstrung feelings in 
the modern theatre of comedy-drama is an ab- 
surdity. An audience is not like an insomnia 
patient or an opium fiend. Theatre-goers do not 
demand that their emotions be sprayed with per- 
fume. That managers hold to the contrary in no- 
wise disturbs my judgment. Theatre managers as 
you very well know, my dear Stevens, are far from 
infallible. If a butcher were as poor a judge of 
meat as the average theatre manager is of plays he 
would become bankrupt in a month. If the men 
who produce plays in New York are not, as Madame 
Simone said, anything more than speculators, at 
least they are always guessing what the pub- 
lic wants, and they guess wrong as often as they 
guess right. There is really no mystery about what 
the public wants in the theatre. The public wants 
good plays. The majority of theatre-goers per- 
haps would rather be amused by an exhibition of 
legs and lingerie than by the drama as a study and 
interpretation of life, but it is really a question as 
to how far theatre-goers can be persuaded to take 
a delight in the serious drama. They have never 
been given a fair chance to vindicate their taste. 
True, they have rejected some beautifully con- 
structed dramas and tremendously serious problem 
plays, but it is wrong to infer from this that they 
are incapable of enjoying specimens of good crafts- 
manship, serious plays that deal in an honest and 



xiv Prefatory Epistle 

searching way with our modern life. While it is 
not to be gainsaid that the public demand is for 
frivolous entertainment, at the same time it is to 
be affirmed that most of the serious plays that have 
failed are lacking in the elements that appeal to 
common emotions. Because an Ibsen play fails; or 
a Shaw play or a Strindberg play or a Galsworthy 
play or a Hauptmann play, it does not follow that 
all the serious plays of these competent playwrights 
are over the heads of the plain people. Each of 
these authors has nodded at times. They are all very 
serious men and deep thinkers, but the thoughts they 
get excited about are not always of general interest. 
Nobody cares much for a play that has served an 
author as a means of bringing into the theatre a new 
and curious apprehension, or dry-as-dust philosophy, 
of life. But everybody likes to see a great passion 
portrayed in such a way as to make it credible. 

We are living in a time when literature shares 
with medicine the privileges formerly enjoyed by 
religion, and as a result we have playwrights who 
are not content with being story-tellers. They 
want to be sociologists, intellectual shepherds and 
guides of the people. The surprising thing about 
their serious plays is that so many have suc- 
ceeded, inasmuch as it is the tendency of the so- 
called intellectual play-writer when in the guise 
of a creator to prove himself nothing more than 
a pamphleteer or commentator. Bernard Shaw is 
not the only dramatist yet to learn that the message 
is of less importance than the terms of its delivery. 
Also, I may add, most of our managers have yet to 
learn that it is not wise to generalize about the 
drama. A play with a striking situation makes a 
big stir. Forthwith the managers conclude that the 
public wants situations of precisely that kind. So 
they buy them, only to find that they are not in the 



Prefatory Epistle *v 

right kind of play. A play with an unhappy end- 
ing fails. Forthwith the managers attribute the 
failure to the ending. It never occurs to them that 
perhaps all that went before the ending made the 
play impossible; that maybe the play, apart from 
the ending, was inherently, essentially, irredeemably 
defective. 

How it would astonish our so-called "producing 
managers" to learn that the public instead of dis- 
liking the unhappy ending really has a craving for 
it! The idea is of course monstrously incredible. 
But here is a modern instance that may be more 
effective than a wise saw for inducing sober reflec- 
tion. A month ago Messrs. Belasco & Davis, man- 
agers of the Alcazar Theatre, San Francisco, asked 
the clientele of their popular stock-house to give an 
expression of preference as to the play that should 
be repeated by Bertram Lytell and Evelyn Vaughan 
in the farewell week of their long season. By an 
overwhelming majority "Madame X" was the play 
preferred. Here is a play with a tragic ending; 
not only that, a play of much sombreness and sad- 
ness. Preferred at the Alcazar! Think of that! 
The Alcazar, I need not tell you, my dear Stevens, 
is a theatre that caters to the sweet matinee girl 
and to respectable folk who care naught for Ibsen, 
who enjoy the so-called wholesome play that starts 
with complications and ends in happy adjustment. 
Yet when given their choice they picked a soul 
torturer, and then they packed the house the whole 
week. 

We know that plays with unhappy, nay, with 
tragic, endings are among the big successes of the 
theatre. Has human nature so changed that it re- 
volts at tragedy ? I think not. A play of a year ago, 
"Fine Feathers," ended in tragedy, and it seemed 
to me that it ended that way merely because time 



xvi Prefatory Epistle 

was short and the playwright didn't know what else 
to do ; yet the play was not a failure. It survived 
the plot, the treatment and the ending, and never 
did play do more. 

If managers will glance over the history of the 
theatre they will see that the weakness which they 
impute to the public does not exist. If it did what 
would become of Shakespeare? One of the few 
popular of the Ibsen plays is Hedda Gabbler. One 
of the most successful of American plays, and 
deservedly so, is "The Easiest Way." Sudermann's 
'The Joy of Living," Pinero's "The Second Mrs. 
Tanqueray" are notable instances of plays with un- 
happy endings which nevertheless were strong in 
public favor. But here I am indulging in a wholly 
unnecessary argument, for as a matter of fact my 
play has not an unhappy ending. Not necessarily 
is a tragic ending unhappy, though, as you know, 
one manager w r ho has read the play confounds the 
two. It all depends, as you know, on what has been 
done to the sympathies of an audience. The killing 
off of a hero or a heroine of a play is both tragic 
and unhappy, but not the killing off of one who 
seems to deserve a miserable fate. 

AS TO POLITICAL PLAYS 

Now as to the objection to the political play. I 
am told by one of our most experienced and suc- 
cessful actresses that she believes "the vogue of the 
political play is passed." "Oh, why didn't you write 
this play four years ago !" and "I hope it is not too 
late for a worthy actor to play Governor Hopkins" 
she exclaimed in a very sweet and complimentary 
letter. An actor, too, veteran of the stage and star 
of many seasons, though he has not read the play, 
hearing it was a political play, lamented in a kindly 



Prefatory Epistle xvn 

letter my waste of time. Explaining that two 
political plays in which he starred for a short time 
were failures, he concluded that mine was fore- 
doomed to failure. But these critics have left me 
cold. And even though the play prove a failure 1 
should not be convinced of the soundness of their 
judgment. Whv blame the hand on the dial for 
pointing the wrong hour rather than the works in- 
side the clock? My notion of the matter is that 
people will hark now and again to human nature 
wherever under the sun it catches their ear; that 
allthat is required of the playwright is average 
human nature flung with some effect into the vortex 
of vital human events. 

It may interest you to know that singularly 
enough it was chiefly on account of some political 
plavs I have seen that I wrote "A Friend of the 
People " As a critic I had long ago determined to 
write a play that I might gain some knowledge of 
the difficulties of the art. Also, long ago I wished 
to see a politician treated as I have treated a 
politician in the play. Several of my literary friends 
whom I thought better equipped for the task than 
myself I urged to write a play of this type. As 
they would not gratify me I set to work myself. 
My choice of substance was therefore deliberate. In 
a measure it was a spirit of protest that prompted 
me— of protest against the trend of the political 
drama in the United States. So you can fancy my 
astonishment on being told at a time when every- 
thing in the country is taking the shape and hue 
of politics, that the people have been surfeited with 
political drama. Of course I don't believe it. I 
regard politics as a vital and pertinent matter. 
Plays about politics must come as closely home to 
all our bosoms as plays about religion to the people 
of the Middle Ages. As people then were supremely 



xviii Prefatory Epistle 

interested — to the point of tears and of laughter — 
about their souls, so in these days of the primary, 
the recall, the initiative and the referendum are 
people concerned about the business of governing. 
Along with these views I hold that the background 
of a drama against which the characters are thrown 
is of less consequence than the motive, the char- 
acterizations and the episodes. In the atmosphere 
of politics it is possible to develop passions and in- 
trigue in nowise political and of universal interest. 
"The Joy of Living" is a political drama, but Beata's 
infidelity to her husband is not political, nor is the 
conflict between lover and husband an affair either 
of State or of pothouse politics. "Julius Caesar" is 
a political drama, but the aspiring Brutus is a fas- 
cinating mortal, and Shakespeare wins our sympathy 
for him, and the vogue of the play appears to be 
immortal. It is absurd to classify plays according 
to their background ; or to demand of a playwright 
anything more than that he reveal to us human be- 
ings and striking human events. This he may do 
in fantasy or farce, in the drawing-room or on the 
campus, among politicians or among peasants. His 
success depends on whether he gives us a discern- 
ing account of some of the eternal varieties of the 
main stuff of human nature, and it will do no harm 
if he reveals a sympathetic insight into ordinary 
every day human character and some acquaintance 
with manners in the particular circle which he has 
brought before the footlights. To accomplish his 
purpose, however, he must avoid the practice of the 
authors of our political drama ; that is he must not 
take his men and women at second-hand from news- 
papers and magazines. His pictures must be of his 
own dramatic vision. He must conceive the details 
of the conflict as having really happened and con- 
vince himself that they must happen over again on 



Prefatory Epistle xix 

the stage with all the energy of life. And so it 
would seem that the playwright may go where he 
lists for material ; for indubitably an audience held 
in suspense and carried along by developments and 
moved to tears or laughter or merely to deep con- 
cern will not complain that the dramatist ventured 
on the ocean instead of remaining on land, or that 
he entered this sphere of activity instead of that. 

What does it matter, then, the background of a 
play, if it be really good drama? If all plays were 
of the thesis type and every playwright more 
polemical than dramatic, more concerned about his 
argument than his story, then it would not be un- 
reasonable for the public to grow weary of politics, 
or, for that matter, of sociology or religion or any- 
thing else provocative of controversy. As a mat- 
ter of fact, there is only one kind of play to which 
the public objects — the dull play. The vogue of 
the political play is co-extensive with the vogue of 
politics, and if we want to realize how States fall 
and men deceive themselves and are deceived politics 
is not a valueless field for the drama. The political 
theme will never be outworn while people are to be 
interested in intrigue or while the sycophants of 
King Mob have access to the far-flung ear of that 
royal Caliban. The theme is as fresh today as 
when Euripides in a flame of indignation over the 
wanton butchery on the island of Melos dashed off 
the "Trojan Women," that most thrilling drama 
wherein he seems to say to the people of Athens, 
"This is the end of all your boasted empire with its 
glory and its pride." If we ever get the long-ex- 
pected great American play will it not be a political 
play, one to inspire the people with devotion to their 
country? You will remember that in old Athens 
whenever the people were thought to be growing 
neglectful of their civic obligations that good old 



xx Prefatory Epistle 

tragedy "The Persians" was put on, and when the 
temperamental Athenians emerged from the theatre 
inflamed with zeal for the welfare of their country 
woe to the person or persons that threatened injury 
to any one of the ancient and revered civic institu- 
tions ! 

Now it occurs to me that the noblest theme for 
the dramatist is to be found right here in the tragi- 
comedy of a nation inflamed by politicians and 
smouldering with a manufactured discontent that 
here and there bursts forth into flame like beacons 
at night on dark hills. If you consider some of the 
things that have happened and are happening I 
know you will sympathize with me in my desire to 
awaken those who slumber on the easy pillow of 
contemporary opinion. I have in mind at present 
the infamous Ballinger conspiracy and the cruel 
political uses to which the Federal Department of 
Justice has been put in recent years for the greater 
glory of some of our adored statesmen. I know 
you understand because you have written to me 
that "A Friend of the People" is the "keenest, most 
authoritative political play ever written in this coun- 
try." Which means, I assume, that it embodies a 
fragment of truth. That is what I intended, and 
now my hope is that the fragment is set forth in a 
manner to make the play actable. For after all 
truth is but a poor defence. As Aristotle or some- 
body tells us, "Not to know that a hind has no 
horns is a less serious matter than to paint it in- 
artistically." Nor does it suffice to be artistic. In 
addition to the breathing life there must be life 
kindling and palpitating. 

Here I find myself platitudinizing like a Roosevelt. 
Let us get back to the question of the vogue of 
political plays. If it appears to be at an end it is 
not because theatre-goers are not to be either en- 



Prefatory Epistle xxi 

tertained or stimulated intellectually by genuine in- 
terpreters of the world in which we live. It is be- 
cause our playwrights, for the present somewhat re- 
mote from the realities of national life, have been 
trying to make possible the impossible civic patriots 
of magazinedom. I will try to make my meaning 
clearer. But I realize that before going any fur- 
ther I must brace myself to encounter the charge of 
self-conceit. When one is but a novice of the drama 
he is conscious of a sort of bad manners in presum- 
ing to instruct clever and experienced playwrights. 
Having written a play, it will be said that I should 
cease to comment on the work of others, and find 
something invidious in the proceeding, but no, I am 
not yet to be considered a playwright. I may never 
be so considered. And anyway having stronger 
views about the state of the country than about 
the state of the theatre, my critical faculty is not to 
be restrained by considerations of delicacy. I see 
in our political plays a tendency to mislead an al- 
ready badly misled public, and therefore I am pro- 
testing. Mark you! I am not accusing our play- 
wrights of prostituting their art for the promotion 
of the unworthy designs of politicians. Worse than 
that, I am saying they are misled. No serious 
political drama that I have seen reflects anything of 
the life and truth of American politics save as it is 
represented to us by the gushing sentimentalists of 
the magazines. One sees nothing in our political 
drama but the apotheosis of the American reformer. 
It occurs to me that all our playwrights— the 
playwrights of the underworld as well as of politics 
—are Progressives. They have been writing the up- 
lift drama. Now if the managers will tell me that 
the public is surfeited with Progressive politics I 
shall not dispute the proposition. I realize that the 
burning question of today is removed from the ash- 



xxii Prefatory Epistle 

tray of tomorrow. But I will ask them What about 
the standpat drama ? Is that never to get a hearing ? 
Our playwrights have explored a corner of life 
through the idealism of the magazines. On the 
stage as in the magazines, the shuttle plies to and 
fro, the pattern of the web grows before our eyes, 
and it is always the same. We get nothing but a 
distorted and trembling reflection of the political 
atmosphere of the day. This is not a strange 
phenomenon. The explanation is simple. The 
drama more than any other art is sensitive to en- 
vironment. It feels what is in the air, reflects the 
sentiment of the times. And here we are in an age 
of cant, the cant of the uplift, the cant of social 
reform, the cant of altruism, the cant of chivalry. 
What has been the effect on the drama ? The drama 
has become the pallid reflex of the artificial manner 
with seldom a patch of vivid relief. The so-called 
political drama is palpitant with the cant of civic 
patriotism. It sees nothing in our vociferous polit- 
ical reformers but sincerity and high character; in 
all others nothing but detestable cynicism and dis- 
honesty. It never occurs to our playsmiths that per- 
haps there may be here or there a political Tartuffe 
practicing his impostures on the people. And 
though the country is full of Sulzers, hypocrisy 
dripping from them as fluently as honey from the 
comb, nowhere is there a Moliere, or even a Shaw 
or Henry Arthur Jones to apply the lash of satire, 
or even to follow with a half-amused but pitiful 
sympathy the various ways of human disposition and 
show us that there is less distance than the average 
magazine reader is able to perceive between what 
is called respectively great and little things. Noth- 
ing is more remarkable than the seriousness with 
which our playwrights take our politicians. Every 
"Battle Bob" is accepted on the basis of his self- 



Prefatory Epistle xxiii 

appraisement ; as he looks to Lincoln Steffens rather 
than as he impresses George Ade or Peter Finley 
Dunne. The public has been gorged on the sham 
heroics of politics, and like the boa-constrictor after 
its semi-annual dinner it has gathered itself up for 
a long fit of dyspepsia. 

The country is full of the stuff of comedy-drama 
and farce going a-begging. Think of all the rich 
and inexhaustible materials in the Puritanical capital 
of our country where the Gridiron Club makes an 
occasional incision into the solid mass of ignorance, 
cant and egotism! Hold the mirror up to Wash- 
ington, and you will see "the very body of the age, 
its form and pressure." If we are deficient in 
comedy it is not because we are without characters 
in real life or without incidents to inspire. Who 
could invent anything more comical and droll than 
the average cow-county lawyer, incompetent in his 
profession, who gets elected to Congress and forth- 
with proceeds to regulate "big business" and re- 
form the institutions of his country, with as little 
knowledge of the science of government as a hog 
has of the precession of the equinoxes; or, as Ed- 
mund Burke phrases it on this very subject, as lit- 
tle knowledge of the principles of government as a 
titmouse has of the gestation of an elephant. Ponder 
the wealth of material for the purposes of the farce 
writer under the tents of the Chautauqua circuit 
where the Tribune of the People spouts his plat- 
itudes while his great rival leads the moving-picture 
men up the slopes of the Andes. The other day I 
read in one of the hero-making weeklies — Collier's or 
Harper's — of a former train robber who was run- 
ning for Governor of Oklahoma intent on purifying 
politics. Did his celebrant see the joke or perceive 
that the case was typical ? He did not. 

Think of all the comedy-drama to be found in 



xxiv Prefatory Epistle 

the doings of the mutual admiration society of which 
the Pinchots, the Lindseys, the Garfields, the John- 
sons and the Heneys are the shining lights. Out- 
side of the Pickwick Papers there is nothing in all 
fiction half so droll as the endless chain of reciprocal 
certification of character by which these men in- 
spire confidence in one another. What a field for 
the satirist! or for anybody with a gift for the 
comedy of radiant sanity! Which reminds me of 
the reticence of the comic spirit in our theatre. 
This is inexplicable except on the hypothesis that 
our sense of humor has been dulled by the comic 
supplement. If the ludicrous took hold of the 
American imagination instead of gliding over the 
mind without jostling or jarring it wouldn't some 
writer long ago have made our conspicuous polit- 
icians serve their country in the atmosphere most 
congenial to them — that of farce-comedy? 

What we need are a few miners of the drama to 
examine and probe the foundations on which the 
men who are trying to purify politics and business 
have reared their structure of superior virtue. It 
is only by inadvertence, as in the "High Road," 
a drama now in its second season, that you meet 
with a touch of truth. Here you have the typical 
reformer, the man of high ideals in politics and low 
standards of personal and private decency ; in other 
words, a man whose character is all veneer for 
public display. He marries a woman with a past, 
a woman honest enough to be frank and self-reveal- 
ing, and when the past returns to menace his polit- 
ical ambition he casts reproaches on her, utters a 
few moral platitudes, and subjects her, in her own 
home, in the presence of three politicians, to the 
bullying and badgering of a blackmailer intent on 
exposing the infamy that she has repented. This 
is the one big scene of the play. Here are the only 



Prefatory Epistle xxv 

rousing moments, and they are attained by letting 
go not only the minor truth of life but the higher 
verities of drama. The whole act is motived in un- 
reality, but what I like about it is the exquisite and 
subtle satire which escaped even the author himself. 
In the white heat of his imagination he conceived 
a genuine reformer, an uncompromising enemy of 
big business, a zealous uplifter, who proves to be 
devoid of self-respect and of the elements of man- 
hood, and with this man we are expected to sym- 
pathize. Many of us did sympathize with him. 
Which shows how amazing is the power of the stage 
and what a demoralizing influence the play may be 
successfully made to exert. It is remarkable the lib- 
erties a dramatist may take with his audience. So 
absorbed does human nature become in the battle 
of elemental passions that even when the persons 
engaged in the conflict take leave of their senses 
the spectator in quick sympathy with the effects de- 
sired projects himself into the situation to sustain 
the illusion and save the author. Many plays in 
which the elemental passions are handled awk- 
wardly make their effects with the assistance of the 
audience. But all of these plays have an indefinable, 
impalpable glamour which is the one essential ele- 
ment of drama that nobody can teach a playwright 
to create. 

Think you, my dear Stevens, that as the author 
of a play I have violated the proprieties in thus 
commenting on the work of a contemporary? If so, 
in mitigation I will plead a principle somewhat akin 
to the one invoked by Robert Louis Stevenson in 
his letter to Dr. Hyde, wherein he contrasted the 
luxury of the home where he had enjoyed Dr. Hyde's 
hospitality with the meanness of Damien's hut 
on Molokai. The author of "The High Road" 
impliedly postulates of his audience that there is 



xxvi Prefatory Epistle 

sufficient of caddishness on one side of the foot- 
lights to make tolerable and enjoyable the cad that 
he presents on the other. Either this is the case, 
or the author intended his play to be ironic. How- 
ever, the play does not explain itself. Perhaps the 
author intended to laugh at his audience. But it is 
outrageous to ask an audience to come and be 
laughed at; to make them pay for it too. Anyway 
I feel justified in holding the author up to reproba- 
tion, especially as he serves my purpose to illustrate 
what is the matter with our political plays. As- 
suredly if a play of this sort lasts two seasons it 
does not argue that the vogue of the political play 
is at an end. If it argues anything it argues that 
the love of the political drama is exceedingly strong. 
For if the country is full of people who will relax 
their intellectuals sufficiently to wallow in the sen- 
timental claptrap and ineptitudes of "The High 
Road," assuredly it would pay to put on political 
plays just a little more plausible with an illusion of 
intimacy or at least a suggestion of familiarity with 
the obvious growth of the national life surround- 
ing us. The more I think of our political plays, 
the more the field of politics takes on the appear- 
ance of virgin soil. 

Of course it may be that "The High Road" has 
another significance. Maybe it argues that it would 
be waste of time for the comic spirit to exert itself 
in the political play, our theatre-goers being com- 
mitted to the unsophisticated attitude toward our 
vociferous job-chasers. While there is no lack of 
material to tempt the comic spirit, why prod the 
comic spirit if there be not enough of quick per- 
ceptions to constitute an audience? Perhaps the 
American dramatist knows his public. Perhaps that 
is why George Ade after showing us his delightful 
play "The County Chairman" failed to venture 



Prefatory Epistle xxvii 

further. Who knows but that the deification of the 
American demagogue is what appeals to public 
taste? Howsoever that may be I have attempted, 
feebly perhaps, to reflect a little of the truth respect- 
ing our politicians. If for twenty years I have been 
a student of the drama and of dramaturgy in vain, 
at least I have acquired during the same period as 
a newspaper man, by actual contact, a working 
knowledge of the American politician in his variety. 
The American politician as I have found him is 
precisely the politician as described by Shakespeare, 
"One that would circumvent God." And contrary 
to what our magazines tell us and our playwrights 
teach us, the politicians whom I have come instinc- 
tively to distrust are the politicians who have con- 
secrated their talents to the business of redeeming 
the pillars of State. Many of them now lauded as 
great civic patriots I know personally. I know 
them to be men marked by the most deliberate and 
immitigable baseness of character. 

You see, my dear Ashton, I have a lot of feeling 
on this subject of politics. My play, I think, makes 
it apparent that I am concerned to show the base- 
ness and meanness possible to a type of man by 
whom a great deal of mischief has been done in 
this country. But I am really more concerned to 
start our skilled literary folk on the right track. I 
am not insisting that I have succeeded where our 
recognized playwrights have failed. As I am not 
yet an acted author, how should I or anybody else 
know anything about it. The makings of a dram- 
atist may have been denied me, but I feel there can 
be no harm in making an honest attempt to deal 
with life as it is and bring some of it into a series 
of pictures. If in the reading the play has some of 
the illusion of life, and there is here and there a cry 
of the flesh or of the mind then perhaps between 



xxviii Prefatory Epistle 

book covers it may rise to the dignity of the so- 
called literary drama — so-called because while it is 
unactable it is also not illiterate. 

If I have bored you, please make allowance for 
the intense eagerness of a beginner to justify his 
choice of theme and his faith in a logical ending. 
And if my tone at times is that of one speaking 
as from a chair of knowledge to one uninformed, I 
beg you to understand that this letter was not 
written only for your perusal but for the perusal as 
well of those who have not had the leisure or the 
inclination to pursue a study of technical interest. 

Theodore Bonnet. 

January, 1914. 



A FRIEND OF THE PEOPLE 



PERSONS OF THE PLAY 



Charles Wesley Hopkins, the Governor. 

Larry Dolan, his secretary. 

Austin Pendleton, his publicity promoter. 

Fred Dunstan, a newspaper correspondent. 

Edward Sawyer, a lawyer. 

Cyrus Foster, a capitalist. 

Mrs. Foster, his wife. 

Rosalie Colton, his niece. 

Lucy, a maid. 

The action passes in the capital of the State, and 
within three days. 




ACT I 

The scene is the main office of the Governor of 
the State in the forenoon of a day late in the month 
of May. In the wall at the back there is a wide 
swinging door opening into the room from a 
spacious corridor. In the right wall is a broad 
window and a door which opens into the Governor's 
private office; in the left wall tzvo doors, one, the 
nearest, opening into a room used for clerical and 
other purposes, chiefly by the secretary, the other 
into a room occupied by the Governor's publicity 
agent , a functionary of recent birth in American 
politics. 

There are bookcases against the walls filled with 
books bound in calf. A large writing table stands 
in the middle of the room; on its left is a large 
revolving chair used by the secretary; on its right an 
office chair, and there are several office chairs scat- 
tered about. On the table are legal documents, writ- 
ing materials and a telephone. Near the revolving 
chair to the left of the occupant as he faces the 
window, is a revolving bookrack filled with blue 
books and law books, zvithin easy reach though not 
obstructing the view of the entrance. Also near the 
table at the right is a small rack holding nezvspaper 
files. 

The secretary, Larry Dolan, is seen at the rise of 
the curtain near the entrance holding the door open. 



6 A Friend of the People 

He has just bowed somebody out, a woman evi- 
dently from the extreme courtliness of his manner, 
in which there is a suggestion of mockery. As he 
lets the door swing back he turns. His face zvears 
a feeble smile. He is a well-dressed, worldly-wise, 
good-natured looking man, in the early thirties. 

(Austin Pendleton enters from his private office 
with a slightly mincing gait. He is a little lantern- 
jawed man, of the ascetic type, meek, sleek and 
prudent. He wears loose-fitting clothes, a white 
bow necktie, speaks in a high key and goes through 
life making mental notes on his surroundings. As 
he enters, he sees Dolan mopping his brozv, pauses 
and gives a weak cough, at the same time putting 
the tips of his fingers to his mouth apologetically.) 

Dolan. And I hope she never comes back ! 

Pendleton (softly). What's that, sir? 

Dolan (querulously and emphatically, as he walks 
toward window). I say — I hope — she never comes 
back. 

Pendleton. Oh. 

Dolan. Mrs. May hew — one of your League of 
Justice ladies. 

Pendleton. Ah ? 

Dolan. Had her for half an hour — hm? (He 
always uses this ejaculation with a rising inflection 
as though asking a question.) That woman is al- 
ways in a honeymoon heat about politics. 

Pendleton (goes to newspaper rack, sits down 
and takes up a Me). Splendid woman — enthusiastic 
for the Eugenics farm idea. 

Dolan (scornfully). And never had a child in 
her life. Couldn't have one in a thousand years. 
But that isn't what she came to see me about. (He 
is looking out the zvindow.) 



A Friend of the People 7 

Pendleton (nearly falls off the chair). No? 

Dolan (zvho hasn't noticed Pendleton's astonish- 
ment, walks over to revolving chair). She wants 
to start another recall movement. (Disgusted.) 
These serious-minded women with the ballot ! They 
think it's a club to brain men with. 

Pendleton (burying himself in the paper). An- 
other recall? 

Dolan. And another judge — Brandon. Gave a 
fellow ten years, and because it was a scrape with 
a girl — hm ? — she's indignant that he didn't get life. 

Pendleton. It's the sex question — great prob- 
lem! 

Dolan. Rot ! The sex question ! (Looks at re- 
volving book case, takes out book.) Here's that 
crazy report of the White Slavery Commission — 
all rot ! Mrs. Landers started that agitation. And 
she's just like Mrs. Mayhew. Both of them belong 
to the sexually unemployed. 

(Pendleton mutters, springs to his feet in a rage 
with newspaper file in hand.) 

Pendleton. Infamous! inf — 

Dolan. What's up, Pendy? 

Pendleton (in perfervid treble). Have you read 
this? 

Dolan. The Times? Oh, yes, I've read it. 
Pretty hot stuff. 

Pendleton. It's criminal ! 

Dolan. Not as bad as the one in the Evening 
Post. 

Pendleton. The Post, too? — Dunstan's paper! 

Dolan. Yes. Hard slam. Says you and the 
League of Justice killed Judge Lawrence. 

Pendleton. Blackguards! The Post is the 



8 A Friend of the People 

most vicious of all the reactionaries. It's always 
abusing this Administration. 

Dolan. It certainly abuses you. 

Pendleton (goes to rack). I must read it. 

Dolan. Says you're drawing a salary from the 
State as Secretary of the Board of Control while 
running a press bureau to boom the Governor for 
United States Senator, when you're not using the 
women of the League of Justice to do crooked 
politics. 

Pendleton. Infamous! Mr. Dolan, I'll sue 
them for libel. 

Dolan (his eyes tzvinkling) . For telling the 
truth? 

Pendleton (indignantly). The truth? 

Dolan. Come, Pendy, you can't rebuke me with 
the voice of indignation. Now listen, — hm. When 
Judge Lawrence committed suicide yesterday, — he 
raised hell, — hm. I know something about public 
sentiment. It switches very suddenly. Take my 
advice and keep under cover for awhile. 

Pendleton. What do you mean? 

Dolan. Put the League of Justice in cold 
storage. (He has taken some documents in his 
hand and starts for secretary's inner office.) That's 
my advice. 

(Enter Governor Hopkins from his private of- 
fice. He comes in hurriedly as if he has some- 
thing to utter at once. He is 40 years of age, 
of medium size, sturdy frame, clean-shaven. He 
zvears a frock coat and slouch hat of the country 
sheriff type. What lack of strength of character 
his countenance betrays is compensated for by his 
manner which is somewhat impressive.) 

Hopkins. Just a moment, Larry. (Dolan 



A Friend of the People 9 

turns.) You remember Ned Sawyer, don't you? 
(Dolan meditates.) The lawyer? 

Dolan. Sawyer? No, Governor, I — 

Hopkins. Oh you remember the lawyer that got 
into the trouble over the Larkin estate. 

Dolan. Oh, that fellow. He was sent to the 
penitentiary, wasn't he? 

Hopkins. Yes, that's the man. He was after- 
wards pardoned. I got a letter from him this morn- 
ing. He wants to see me about something. (A 
pause.) I'm going upstairs to the library for a 
few minutes. If he comes in tell him to wait. 

Dolan. All right, sir. 

(Dolan goes into inner office.) 

Hopkins (waiting till door closes on Dolan). 
Trask just rang me up over the phone from the 
city. Some correspondence is missing from his 
office. (Pendleton jumps up in astonishment.) It's 
been stolen. 

Pendleton (amazed). Good gracious! What 
does that mean? 

Hopkins. I don't know. He didn't want to 
talk much over the phone. (Puzzled.) He said 
something about this man Sawyer. I can't make 
it out. There's something wrong. 

(Dolan returns.) 

Hopkins. Remember, Larry, I'll be in the State 
Library. 

Dolan. Yes, sir. 

(Hopkins goes out.) 

Pendleton. You were saying the League ought 
to be put, er — 

Dolan. In cold storage, yes. Suspend business 
for awhile. 



10 A Friend of the People 

Pendleton. How long? 

Dolan. Till the Lawrence agitation dies out. 
Pendleton. It'll never die out if Dunstan can 
keep it going. 

(Enter Fred Dunstan, tall, a well-groomed man 
of thirty-five, with the sophisticated air of the news- 
paper man ivho has had such varied experience of 
men that he has come to be amiably cynical and in- 
clined to laugh at pretense. He is chuckling as he 
enters.) 

Dolan. Hello, Fred, just talking about you. 
What's the joke? 

Dunstan. The sign on the door. It makes me 
laugh every time I look at it. (In a bantering tone 
he quotes the legend on the door.) "Executive 
office open to everybody. You are welcome." And 
that's what the dear people like! You can't slap 
it on too thick. 

Dolan. What do you want us to do — tell them 
to keep out? 

Dunstan. My dear fellow I'm not reproaching 
you. I'm for letting you go as far as you like. 
Ah, by the way, Mr. Pendleton, now that Judge 
Lawrence is dead and out of the way I suppose the 
League of Justice has nothing to do but attend to 
the Governor's senatorial fight. 

Pendleton (sneering). Is that so? (Turns 
on his heel to go.) 

Dolan. By the way, Pendy, before I forget it, 
the Governor has been asking for the report of the 
Minimum Wage Commission. I wish you'd put it 
on his desk. 

Pendleton. Yes, sir. 

(Pendleton goes into private office. Dolan seated 
at the table explodes with suppressed laughter as 
Pendleton disappears.) 



A Friend of the People 



11 



Dunstan. He reminds me of Uriah Heep. 

Dolan. Oh, he's harmless. 

Dunstan. He helped to kill poor old. Lawrence. 

Dolan. Nonsense! 

Dunstan. It's the truth. And Judge Lawrence 
was one of God's noblemen and as straight as a 
string. 

Dolan. Well, what did he commit suicide for? 

Dunstan. Because he knew he was up against 
a machine that would certainly crush him. 

Dolan. A machine? 

Dunstan. Yes, a machine. 

Dolan. What machine? 

Dunstan. Tush ! Tush ! my boy— the Governor's 
machine. You reformers are better than raw 
hands at building machines. 

Dolan. Now you're making a noise like a Post 
editorial. My, but you reactionaries are sore ! 

Dunstan. I'm not sore. You can't give the 
dear people too much direct government to suit me. 
My theory is that given enough rope the reformer 
will hang himself. 

Dolan. Oh, come now, Fred, the people are 
getting mighty good government. 
3 Dunstan. The principal trouble with it is that 
it's under forced draught. First the bond election 
and referendum for government ownership, prim- 
aries till you can't rest, the Constitutional election 
of last week for the adoption of all the fads and 
fancies of the half-baked philosophers, the re- 
call movement stopped by death, and now the extra 
session, with another direct primary in the omng. 
(He sits dozvn and throws up his hands as though xn 
desperation.) The Governor is going some, isn t 
he? 



12 A Friend of the People 

Dolan. Don't blame it all on him. What's the 
matter with the Legislature ? 

Dunstan (solemnly). The Legislature? Now, 
Larry, — I'm not an expert in paresis. But don't 
forget this — the Governor was for the direct prim- 
ary, and the legislator with a brain like a squash is 
what the direct primary afflicted us with. No side- 
stepping of responsibility, please. 

Dolan. Not at all! The Governor — 

Dunstan. — gave us woman suffrage. 

Dolan (collapses in his chair, but quickly pulls 
himself together). The people voted for it. And 
it may be a good thing. It hasn't been fully tested 
yet. 

(Pendleton returns with manuscript on way to 
Governor's office.) 

Dunstan. By the way I understand that Luke 
Trask was for the recall of Judge Lawrence. 

(Pendleton pauses to listen.) 

Dolan (obviously startled but feigns composure). 
Where did you hear that knock? 

Dunstan (flicking the ashes of a cigarette zvhile 
he glances at Pendleton). A little bird has set it 
to music. (To Pendleton.) Haven't you heard it? 

Pendleton (who also has displayed some agita- 
tion). No, I haven't, but anyway I never pay any 
attention to newspaper gossip. 

Dolan (indifferently). Nothing to it. 

Pendleton. Reactionary poison! 

Dunstan (in a tone of sarcasm). To be sure! 

Pendleton (choking and sputtering with rage). 
Mr. Dolan in behalf of the Governor — I — I — 

Dunstan. Assuage yourself, Mr. Pendleton. 
Beware of epilepsy. 



A Friend of the People 13 

Pendleton. You are disseminating calumny, sir. 

Dolan. Of course you don't believe that Trask 
was interested in the Lawrence recall. 

Dunstan. I'm only telling you what is being 
said, and remarking how utterly improbable it is. 

(Enter Miss Colton. She is about 24, tall, 
slender, brozvn-haired, pretty. A well-groomed 
young woman, there is alertness in her manner, and 
she has an air of girlishness and of having been in- 
dulged and petted. She has great confidence in her- 
self.) 

Dolan (who is the first to see her). Good morn- 
ing, Miss Colton. 

Miss Colton. Good morning, gentlemen. 

Pendleton (a pallid but broad smile on his face). 
Ah, good morning, Miss Colton. Awfully glad to 
see you. 

Dunstan (going quickly forward to greet her). 
How do you do. (They shake hands cordially, but 
she is apparently diffident). When did you come 
up? 

Miss Colton. We motored up this morning. 

(Dolan busy with some papers goes into sec~ 
retary's room. Pendleton is nervously eager to get 
in a word.) 

Dunstan. Mrs. Foster came with you? 

Miss Colton. Yes. (To Pendleton.) Oh, Mr. 
Pendleton, you wrote me — 

Pendleton. Ye-es about the League of Justice. 
I am arranging for a meeting, and I want you to 
see the program. (Smiling sardonically at Dun- 
stan.) We were talking of the League just a few 
minutes ago. 

Miss Colton. Is that so? 



14 A Friend of the People 

Pendleton (grinning). That is — Mr. Dunstan 
mentioned it. I think he is inclined to sneer at 
our League. 

Miss Colton. Sneer at it? 

Dunstan. Oh, I beg your pardon. I forgot 
that you were a member — er — an officer, I believe. 

Miss Colton (amiably to Pendleton, but with a 
touch of sarcasm). Mr. Dunstan represents his 
father's great journal — the Post. Their sympathies 
are not with us. 

Dunstan. No, we are incorrigible conservatives. 
(Approaching Miss Colton and speaking in a tend- 
erly propitiatory tone.) But you'll forgive me, 
won't you? (She smiles.) I'll promise you never 
to sneer at the League again. 

Miss Colton (with affected indifference). How 
good of you ! (To Pendleton.) So you wish me to 
look over the program? 

Pendleton. Yes. It's on my desk. (Starts for 
private office.) Will you come in? 

Miss Colton. Yes. (To Dunstan, smiling.) 
The business of the League keeps me very busy. 
(She starts toward Pendleton's room.) Wasn't 
Judge Lawrence's suicide too dreadful for any- 
thing ? 

(Dolan returns.) 

Dunstan. Indeed it was. 

Miss Colton. I'm so sorry for his family. (She 
goes in zvith Pendleton.) 

Dunstan (watching her as she goes in and think- 
ing aloud). Well! Well! (He sighs.) 

Dolan. Quit that, Fred, or I'll think you're in 
love. 

Dunstan. I was thinking how unfortunate that 
a young girl should be so wrapped up in politics. 



A Friend of the People 15 

Dolan (who is writing). Unfortunate? Quite 
natural it seems to me considering that the Gov- 
ernor's boom was started in her uncle's house. 

Dunstan. Yes, that's so. Mrs. Foster started 
it. There's a brainy woman ! 

Dolan. You bet she is! 

Dunstan. Many a good time I had in the Foster 
house. (Sighs.) 

Dolan. Believe you were an old friend of the 
family — hm ? 

Dunstan. I used to visit them a good deal be- 
fore they switched from art and literature to politics. 
They had a kind of salon in the old days. 

Dolan. A salon — eh? (Laughs.) Shouldn't 
think that would hold old Foster very long. 

Dunstan. Hardly ! Between ourselves, old 
chum, does Foster know he's alive? 

Dolan. What are you driving at? 

Dunstan. Oh, nothing in particular. . . . 
She's such a spanking woman, and he's — well when 
a man's mind stops growing he's dead. 

(Pendleton's office door opens. Pendleton is hold- 
ing it open for Miss Colton.) 

Dunstan (hastily departing). I'll drop in this 
afternoon, Larry. 

Dolan. All right, Fred. 

(Dunstan goes out.) 

Miss Colton (entering). Mr. Pendleton tells me 
you think the League of Justice has been too active 
in politics. 

Dolan. I should think he'd begin to think so 
too after hearing Dunstan talk. There's been a 
good deal of criticism since the suicide. 

(Pendleton returns.) 



16 A Friend of the People 

Miss Colton. But we can't help that. I've 
agreed to make my maiden speech at the next 
meeting. 

Dolan. Do you know they are coupling the 
Governor's name with Luke Trask's? 

Miss Colton (amazed). The attorney for the 
Blue Mountain Light and Power Company ? (Dolan 
nods.) The man the Governor drove out of 
politics ? 

Dolan. Yes. 

Miss Colton. Absurd! Everybody knows the 
Governor detests that man. 

Pendleton. Of course they do. 

Dolan. Oh, very well! But let me tell you 
something. It takes very little to turn public sen- 
timent, and there's a good deal of sympathy for 
Judge Lawrence's family. 

Pendleton. Public sentiment ! The idea ! Think 
of what the people did last week, Mr. Dolan. 

Dolan. You mean they voted for the Constitu- 
tional amendments? 

Miss Colton (rapturously). For all of them! 

Pendleton. Especially for the one which makes 
it possible for the Governor to run for the Senate. 

Miss Colton. I believe every woman in the State 
voted for that. 

Dolan. I agree with everything you say. But 
there's something you forget — hm — the League of 
Justice isn't supposed to be a part of this Adminis- 
tration, or to be mixed up in partisan politics. It's 
supposed to be an independent public spirited body. 

Pendleton. Well ? 

Dolan (in disgust). Now, Pendy, I'm not going 
to undertake a surgical operation to enable you to 



A Friend of the People 17 

size up a situation in a sentence. Besides, — is that 
the Minimum Wage report you have there? 
Pendleton. Yes. 

Dolan. Well don't forget to put it on the Gov- 
ernor's desk. 

Pendleton. I'll put it there now. 
(He goes in.) 

Dolan. You like the game of politics, don't you, 
hm? 

Miss Colton. Yes, the excitement of it. 

Dolan. We've had lots of that. 

Miss Colton. And I like to feel that I'm doing 
my civic duty and helping Governor Hopkins re- 
deem the great and beautiful State I was born in. 

Pendleton (who has returned just in time to hear 
the last words). Good for you, Miss Colton ! (Has 
taken up neivspaper Hie.) I haven't read all this 
Post article yet. Have you seen how the news- 
papers are abusing me? 

Miss Colton. Yes, it's a shame! 

Pendleton. It's contemptible personal journal- 
ism. But I don't care about myself — it's the Gov- 
ernor I'm thinking about — the scoundrels! 

Dolan. That's right — always be in a battle 
mood about the Administration. 

(Governor Hopkins returns, and Pendleton im- 
mediately goes into his private office with newspaper 
file.) 

Hopkins. Well, my dear Rosalie ! ( They shake 
hands and he is inclined to embrace her, but she 
looks shyly at Dolan and draws away.) When 
did you come up? 

Miss Colton. This morning. 

Hopkins. By train? 



18 A Friend of the People 

Miss Colton. We motored up with Uncle Cyrus. 

Hopkins. Ah, then Mrs. Foster is here too. 

Miss Colton. Yes, we have taken our old apart- 
ments at the Capitol Hotel. 

Hopkins (to Dolan). Oh, by the way, Larry, 
I've decided to call the extra session for the twenty- 
sixth. 

Dolan. The twenty-sixth? Very well — I'd bet- 
ter get busy. (He starts for inner office and goes 
in.) 

Hopkins (gravely). So the Fosters are here! 

Miss Colton. Yes, they'll probably drop in. 

Hopkins. Have you told them yet? 

Miss Colton (feigning surprise). Told them 
what ? 

Hopkins (tenderly taking her hand and caressing 
it) . You little rogue ! 

Miss Colton. I have nothing to tell them. 

Hopkins (laughing). Are you going to jilt me? 

Miss Colton (looking at her hands). I don't see 
any engagement ring. I thought you were going to 
talk it over with Uncle Cyrus? You were afraid 
that he might be angry with you. (He gesticulates 
protestingly.) I believe you wanted his consent. 

Hopkins. Now, Rosalie, be fair. 

Miss Colton. Well, then, what was it you said? 

Hopkins. I told you that I ought to be the first 
to tell him. 

Miss Colton. And you wanted me meanwhile to 
keep it a deep dark secret. I don't understand the 
situation at all. However, it's all your affair. 

Hopkins. Are you angry with me? 
Miss Colton. Indeed I'm not. I think it lots 
of fun. Besides I think you are too busy to marry. 



A Friend of the People 19 

But what I don't understand is why you should 
have asked me to marry you when you were so 
afraid to have anybody know. 

Hopkins. It's because you don't understand 
politics. 

Miss Colton (pouting). Don't understand pol- 
itics ! What have I been doing for the last five or 
six months? 

Hopkins (jocularly). I beg your pardon, my 
dear Rosalie. You do understand politics — after a 
fashion. 

Miss Colton. Only after a fashion? 

Hopkins. My dear, it takes a lifetime for a man 
to learn all there is to be learned of politics. How 
can a woman learn it in less than a year ? 

Miss Colton (having received an inspiration). 
I've had more than a year's experience. I studied 
the science of government at the university. 

Hopkins (laughs). Oh, to be sure! That helped 
some. 

Miss Colton. And I've had a liberal education 
at home. 

Hopkins. At home? 

Miss Colton. Nothing else talked of there since 
Aunt Edith started your campaign. 

Hopkins. Oh. 

Miss Colton (rising suddenly). Charles! 

Hopkins. Well, dear? 

Miss Colton (coaxingly). Let me tell Aunt 
Edith. 

Hopkins (startled). My God no, don't tell her! 
(Calming himself) not just yet. 

Miss Colton (sits down in dejection). You talk 
as if you were afraid of her. 



20 A Friend of the People 

Hopkins (laughing). Why should I be afraid 
of her? 

Miss Colton. Well why not tell her? 

Hopkins (sits dozvn and caresses her hand). I 
am going to tell her. You know I haven't seen 
her for some weeks. And you see (he laughs) I've 
been a little timid. Uncle Cyrus and Mrs. Foster 
may think it imprudent for us to marry — you're so 
much younger than I. 

Miss Colton. What about themselves? Uncle 
Cyrus didn't think it imprudent to marry, and he's 
twenty-five years older than you. 

Hopkins. I never thought of that. 

Miss Colton. And Aunt Edith — well she never 
told me her age, but she doesn't look a day over 
thirty-two. 

Hopkins. But there's another thing. Uncle 
Cyrus thinks I should be devoting every bit of my 
time to politics. You know he wants me to be- 
come United States Senator. (Jocularly.) He 
might think I was becoming frivolous if I stopped 
to get married. You know he's a wee bit of a 
crank. 

Miss Colton (rising). Perhaps it would be 
frivolous ... to get married. 

Hopkins (taking her hand). Oh, Rosalie, you're 
not offended, are you? 

Miss Colton. No, I'm amused. (Suddenly 
laughing merrily.) But it seems so funny that you 
should be afraid of Uncle Cyrus. I believe that 
when you tell him, you will act as though you are 
breaking the news of a death. But it isn't my fault. 
I didn't begin it. 

Hopkins. Sweetheart ! I've been making a fool 
of myself. Now listen: I'll tell them all about it 
before the end of the week. After all what do I 



A Friend of the People 21 

care about politics! I want you. You're of more 
importance to me than a seat in the Senate. But 
the Fosters have been very kind to me, and I don't 
want to hurt their feelings. 

Miss Colton (in alarm) . But I want you to care 
about politics. You can want me as much as you 
like, but you must never desert the people of this 
State. And besides (a pause). 

Hopkins. And besides? 

Miss Colton. I think I'd like to live in Wash- 
ington. 

Hopkins. Oho! That's it! 

Miss Colton Well you do want to be Senator, 
don't you? 

Hopkins (tenderly). Yes, especially if you wish 
me to. 

Miss Colton. I think I'd rather be the wife of a 
Senator than the wife of a Governor. 

Hopkins. Then the wife of a Senator you shall 
be. ... If the people will elect me. 

Miss Colton. I'll not be worried about the 
people. 

(Dolan comes back and goes to table for papers 
and Miss Colton gives signs of going.) 

Hopkins. Don't be in a hurry, dear. 

Miss Colton. I must be going. 

Hopkins. Would you like to take a short drive 
down the riverside in my new car? 

Miss Colton (rapturously). Oh, yes, when shall 
we go? 

Hopkins (looks at zvatch). At 1:30? 

Miss Colton (near the door). At 1 :30. 

(She goes out. Hopkins turns and is about to 
go to his office. Pendleton returns zvith nezvs paper 
file, an angry look in his face.) 



22 A Friend of the People 

Pendleton. I'm going to write a letter to the 
Post. 

Dolan. Going to make a damned fool of your- 
self — hm ? 

Hopkins. What's the trouble? 

Pendleton. This abusive matter oughtn't to be 
allowed to go unanswered. In the interest of the 
Administration it — 

Hopkins. Never mind the Administration. 
Never write a letter to an editor. It won't do you 
any good. 

(Hopkins goes in.) 

Dolan (laughing at Pendleton). Don't be rash, 
Pendy. 

Pendleton. Anyway I think that man Dunstan 
deserves a stinging rebuke. What impudence! — 
coming in here and uttering his calumnies right to 
our teeth. . . . And you seem to like him! 

Dolan. We're old friends. 

Pendleton. What has he got against the Gov- 
ernor ? 

Dolan. I don't know that he has anything 
against the Governor. Newspaper men write ac- 
cording to the policy of their papers. Dunstan is 
not drawing a salary to boom the Governor. That's 
your job. Oh, that reminds me! (Rises and goes 
into secretary's office. Pendleton takes up Post.) 

(Enter Mrs. Foster. She is Jj years of age. 
She is stylish, and has a face lighted up with in- 
telligence. One is immediately struck with her beauty 
and charm. She has a distinction of manner the 
most unobserving could not fail to notice. As she 
enters Pendeltons back is turned tozvard the door 
and he is once more absorbed in the paper.) 

Mrs. Foster. Ah, good morning, Mr. Pendleton. 



A Friend of the People 23 

(She comes forzvard.) 

Pendleton (startled out of his clothes). Oh, 
Mrs. Foster ! You startled me ! (Puts a hand over 
his heart.) 

Mrs. Foster. I didn't mean to frighten you. 

Pendleton. I was so absorbed. 

Mrs. Foster. Is the Governor in? 

Pendleton. Yes, he just went into his office. 

Mrs. Foster. Ah. 

Pendleton. A lovely day we are having. Your 
motor trip this morning was delightful, I suppose. 

Mrs. Foster. Yes. And how did you know it 
was a motor trip ? 

Pendleton. Miss Colton told me. She was in 
a little while ago. 

Mrs. Foster. Indeed? 

Pendleton. Yes. Sweet girl, isn't she? 

Mrs. Foster. Very. 

Pendleton. A lovely disposition, and so serious- 
minded. 

Mrs. Foster. Too serious, I fear. 

Pendleton. Oh, my no! She has enthusiasm, 
Mrs. Foster. And as Emerson tells us every great 
movement in the world's history was the triumph 
of an enthusiasm. 

Mrs. Foster (smiles). What great movement 
does Rosalie stand for? 

Pendleton. The purification of government, 
especially of the courts. The quality of justice has 
much improved since the ladies organized the 
League of Justice. Judges are not so independent 
as formerly. 

Mrs. Foster. You think it wise to intimidate 
the courts? 



24 A Friend of the People 

Pendleton. I think it wise to discipline them. 
Does not our Governor think so? 
Mrs. Foster. Does he? 

Pendleton. Ah, Mrs. Foster, you are banter- 
ing me. Nobody is more familiar than you with 
the Governor's sentiments. 

Mrs. Foster (sitting down). I've not heard 
him discuss politics of late. Does he really think 
the courts should be . . . disciplined did you 
say? 

Pendleton. Yes ; I've heard him speak in favor 
of the recall of decisions. 

Mrs. Foster. Indeed? How strange. I've 
read somewhere that that's revolutionary. 

Pendleton. That's what the reactionaries call 
it. 

Mrs. Foster. Really? I wonder if I'm a re- 
actionary! What would you call me, Mr. Pendle- 
ton? 

Pendleton (puzzled. He meditates). Mr. Fos- 
ter says you know more about politics than he does, 
but that you were not for woman suffrage and that 
you don't vote. ... I'd call you a paradox. 

Mrs. Foster (laughing). I'm afraid I'm not a 
very good citizen according to your ideas. 

Pendleton. Would you like to read Professor 
Rasmussen's essay on "A Woman's Duty to the 
State"? 

Mrs. Foster. Yes ; I'm sure I'd enjoy it. 

Pendleton. I'll get it for you. 

(He goes to secretary's office. Mrs. Foster looks 
at mirror in her vanity case, goes to windozv and 
surveys herself, arranging her hair. Just as she 
finishes Governor Hopkins returns hurriedly and 
walks toward door of Pendleton's office. Mrs. 



A Friend of the People 25 

Foster snaps her vanity case and coughs, thus at- 
tracting his attention.) 

Hopkins (in great surprise). Well — my dear 
Edith. (They approach and shake hands.) So 
you've come up at last. (He caresses her hand and 
while he is doing so Pendleton returns.) 

Mrs. Foster. Ah, Mr. Pendleton has some in- 
teresting literature for me. 

Pendleton. Here it is, Mrs. Foster. (He hands 
the pamphlet to her.) 

Mrs. Foster. Thank you. (To Governor Hop- 
kins.) Some instructive political literature. 

(Pendleton withdraws.) 

Hopkins (ebulliently). I'm awfully glad to see 
you. 

Mrs. Foster. You are? 

Hopkins. Indeed I am. (He kisses her.) Let 
me see — it's four weeks since I was down to the 
city. 

Mrs. Foster. Five weeks. And you never 
wrote me a line. 

Hopkins. Well I've been kept mighty busy. 

Mrs. Foster. I should fancy so. You look 
overworked. (She sits down.) 

Hopkins (throws himself into revolving chair and 
sighs). I am overworked. 

Mrs. Foster. How terribly worried you look! 

Hopkins. In this office a man doesn't have much 
peace of mind. 

Mrs. Foster (in a tone of anxiety and concern). 
I thought something was wrong, Charles. What I 
really came up for was to be near you. 

Hopkins (by no means enthused). That's aw- 
fully kind of you, dear. 



26 A Friend of the People 

Mrs. Foster (his coldness being apparent to 
her). Perhaps you'd rather not have me near you. 

Hopkins (rising and apparently in an agitated 
state of mind). Don't say that, Edith. 

Mrs. Foster (rising and regarding him closely). 
What has come over you? 

Hopkins (pacing up and down). Fm not my- 
self. I'm worn to a frazzle. I wish I was far 
away. I ought to go into the mountains and take 
a long rest. 

Mrs. Foster. You seem far away ... to 
me. 

Hopkins. To you? (Drops into chair near 
table and into momentary reverie with head on 
hand, as if in state of profound melancholy. Pulls 
himself together quickly.) Far away to you? 
Edith — you don't understand. 

Mrs. Foster. There was a time, Charles, when 
our understanding of each other was almost 
clairvoyant. Perhaps my perceptive powers are 
growing feeble with years. When a woman gets into 
the thirties she is no longer young. (A pause.) 
What is there to understand? 

Hopkins. My dear you can have no conception 
of all the worries I am having — all the irritations 
and anxieties. And to think it was you that urged 
me into this office ! 

Mrs. Foster. Urged you into it? Are you re- 
proaching me for pointing out a career to you and 
helping to make it possible for you to enter upon it ? 

Hopkins. Oh, no dear. I shouldn't say that. 
I don't mean to reproach you. I'm not myself these 
days. Edith, the only comfort I get in this office is 
from cursing it. 

Mrs. Foster. I don't like to hear you say that, 
Charles. Why should you curse this high office 



A Friend of the People 27 

where there is so much of honorable duty for you 
to perform? 

Hopkins (roused, he looks at her intently). You 
are a curious woman, Edith. 

Mrs. Foster. Am I? In what respect? 

Hopkins. You take no part in politics, and yet 
you take politics so seriously. 

Mrs. Foster. Do I? Well, I suppose it's be- 
cause I wish to see you do well — do all that is ex- 
pected of you. In that way you can make me feel 
that I have done some good. So please don't curse 
the office. 

Hopkins. Oh, I don't mean that. I've been so 
harassed that I've lost patience. I'm not myself at 
all. 

Mrs. Foster. Is it only politics that has changed 
you? 

Hopkins (catching something in her tone that 
startles him). What else do you think could change 
me? 

Mrs. Foster. Oh, there are many things that 
effect changes in a person. 

Hopkins. Yes, but what greater change could 
be wrought in a man than the change that has taken 
place in my career? 

Mrs. Foster. I shouldn't call it much of a 
change for a lawyer to become a Governor. You 
are still a lawyer. 

Hopkins. Yes — yes — I'm still a lawyer, but 
what else am I? 

Mrs. Foster. The Governor of the State. 

Hopkins (bitterly). And the exemplar of all the 
virtues. 

Mrs. Foster (smiling). Oh, I forgot that. 



28 A Friend of the People 

Hopkins. I came into office with the people 
singing "Onward Christian Soldiers." I'm the em- 
bodiment of the uplift movement . . . and I'm 
a living lie. 

Mrs. Foster. What do you mean? 
Hopkins. Don't you understand? Don't you see 
the change you have wrought in my life? 
Mrs. Foster. The change I have wrought? 
Hopkins (now intensely emotional). Yes, yes! 
Who was it that turned me to politics? that spurred 
me on to the career I am following? It was you, 
Edith. You made a new man of me and I rose to 
place and power on the stepping stone of my dead 
self. I— 

Mrs. Foster. You mean — 
Hopkins. I mean that you have put on my 
shoulders a load too heavy for me to bear. 
Mrs. Foster. I? — you mean — 
Hopkins. Oh, I'm not reproaching you, Edith. 
I mean that you have put me under obligations to 
your husband. Everybody knows he financed my 
campaign, and everybody believes me the soul of 
honor. 

Mrs. Foster. Ah, I understand. And you wish 
to be precisely what you seem — a worthy ambition. 
Hopkins. Now you are sarcastic. 
Mrs. Foster. Only a little bit — amiably sarcas- 
tic. I understand your feelings, Charles, exactly. 
I know what it is to be stung by conscience. I too 
have had a load to bear. 

Hopkins. Yes, dear. I know. Oh, I'm glad 
you understand. I'm losing faith in myself, but my 
love for you — 

Mrs. Foster. Is dead! 
Hopkins. Do you believe that? 



A Friend of the People 29 

Mrs. Foster. Why of course. And that's noth- 
ing. Love is eternal only in fairy tales. We have 
nothing to reproach each other with. But, Charles, 
you were elected Governor to purify politics — not 
your soul. And the people weren't under any 
delusion. They didn't think they were electing a 
god. (He attempts to speak, raising his hands 
deprecatingly.) Now the only thing is you should- 
n't get wrong about the psychology of your case. 
I understand, and it's all right. There's nothing to 
regret. You can atone for both of us by proving 
yourself, as I believe you will, the best Governor 
the State ever had. 

Hopkins. You think me utterly selfish. 

Mrs. Foster (ironically). Why should I think 
anything so abominable? 

Hopkins. I am not selfish. It is not wholly my 
own interest that I am consulting. 
Mrs. Foster. No? 

Hopkins. I am thinking of you as well as of 
myself. 

Mrs. Foster. Of me ? 

Hopkins. This is a small town, Edith. There 
has been gossip about us. 

Mrs. Foster. Gossip? 

Hopkins. Yes. 

Mrs. Foster. About me? 

Hopkins. About you and me. 

Mrs. Foster. We have seen very little of each 
other in this town. 

Hopkins. Our apartments were in the same 
hotel. 

Mrs. Foster. My husband, and his niece are al- 
ways with me. 



30 A Friend of the People 

Hopkins. But, Edith, I have many enemies 
nowadays. 

Mrs. Foster. Yes, I know, and you must guard 
yourself against them. 

Hopkins. Now, Edith, we must take a phil- 
osophic view of this matter. We cannot afford to 
fly in the face of circumstance. The talk has gone 
pretty far, and for your sake as well as my own I'm 
going to disarm suspicion. 

Mrs. Foster. What are you going to do? 

Hopkins. Let us go inside. I must have a 
long talk with you. (He approaches her with love- 
light in his eyes, and with tenderness in his voice.) 
And you must not think ill of me. You must un- 
derstand. 

(Enter Edward Sawyer. A tall, well-dressed 
man, with hair prematurely white and pallor that 
marks the face that has been behind prison bars. 
He has the manner of a man who feels that he is 
always being watched. He sees Mrs. Foster, and 
draws back.) 

Hopkins (sees Sawyer and is at once agitated). 
Oh, just a moment. (To Sawyer.) Come in, Ned. 
I'll see you in a moment. 

Mrs. Foster (before turning). Shall I wait? 

Hopkins. Perhaps tomorrow will do. 

Mrs. Foster (turning she utters herself in aston- 
ishment). Edward Sawyer! (A pause.) Aren't 
you Ned Sawyer? 

Sawyer. Yes, I'm Ned. 

Mrs. Foster. You have changed, but, oh, I re- 
member you very well. 

Sawyer. I haven't forgotten you. You haven't 
changed. 



A Friend of the People 31 

Mrs. Foster (extending her hand, which he 
grasps eagerly) . How glad I am to see you ! 

Hopkins Well, Ned, I've been waiting for you. 
(To Mrs. Foster.) I never knew that you two were 
acquainted. 

Mrs. Foster (smiling). Oh, we are old friends. 
Aren't we? 

Sawyer. Yes — old friends. 

Mrs. Foster. Well I'll be going. Good-bye. 
(She extends her hand again and he clasps it eagerly 
and warmly.) 

Sawyer (still holding her hand). Good-bye. 

Hopkins. I'll telephone to the hotel tomorrow. 

(She nods and goes out.) 

Hopkins. Well, Ned! 

Sawyer. Did you get my letter? 

Hopkins (much affected kindliness). Yes, Ned, 
and I've been waiting for you. Come, sit down. 
(Sawyer sits near table.) Now what can I do for 
you. 

Sawyer (looking round the office as though ab- 
sorbed in the spectacle) . Well ! Well ! 

Hopkins. You wrote that there was something 
you wanted. 

Sawyer (suddenly realizing the Governor's pres- 
ence. He speaks as though his mind was somewhat 
confused). Pardon me, yes; there was something. 
(A pause.) I came to see you on business. 

Hopkins. What business? 

Sawyer (again looking around. A note of sad- 
ness in his voice). Times have changed, haven't 
they? 

Hopkins (sympathetically). Yes, Ned, they have 
changed. 



32 A Friend of the People 

Sawyer (bitterly). It's more than two years 
since I came out of the penitentiary. And this is 
the first time we have met. 

Hopkins. You never came to see me. 

Sawyer. No, I never came. (A pause.) Three 
years behind prison bars, and you never come to see 
me. 

Hopkins. There was a reason for that, as you 
know; but what is it you want, Ned? 

Sawyer. I have come to ask you for something. 
Hopkins. Yes; what is it? (A pause.) 

Sawyer (solemnly). For the crime I was found 
guilty of, I have paid the penalty. (Laughs, hyster- 
ically.) Think of it, Hopkins, I — I — paid the pen- 
alty. 

Hopkins (perturbed. Looks around as though 
fearful somebody might be listening). Calm your- 
self, Ned. Tell me, what is it you want me to do. 

Sawyer (with gravity and measured utterance). 
I want you to appoint me — 

Hopkins (astonished). To appoint you? 

Sawyer (his anger rising; also himself). Yes. 
Is that asking too much of you? 

Hopkins (rising. He is getting nervous). Ap- 
point you to what? 

Sawyer. You know I've been reinstated at the 
bar. 

Hopkins. Yes, I know. 

Sawyer. I've been practicing right along and — 
Hopkins. Yes. 

Sawyer. — now I'd like to go on the bench. 
Hopkins (astonished). On the bench? 
Sawyer. Yes, on the bench. There's a vacancy, 
isn't there? A judge committed suicide yesterday. 



A Friend of the People 33 

Hopkins. You want me to make a judge of — 

Sawyer. An ex-convict, yes. 

Hopkins. Oh, I didn't mean that, Ned. 

Sawyer. I hope not. 

Hopkins (looking round nervously). Suppose 
we come inside and talk it over. (He moves tozvard 
his private office.) 

Sawyer (sits down). Let's talk it over right 
here. 

Hopkins (regaining his composure). It's more 
comfortable in there. But, just as you please. (Sits 
down.) So you are practicing law again. 

Sawyer. Yes. 

Hopkins (looking at him sharply). You are in 
the law department of the Blue Mountain Light and 
Power Company, I believe. 

Sawyer (taking out a cigarette and smiling 
grimly). No; not just now. 

Hopkins. Oh. 

Sawyer (regarding him fixedly ). Your friend 
Luke Trask notified me day before yesterday that 
my services were no longer required. 

Hopkins. I see. Any trouble? 

Sawyer. With Trask? 

Hopkins. Yes. 

Sawyer. Don't you know? 

Hopkins (rising and ignoring question). Now, 
Ned, I want to do something for you. I'm going 
to do something for you. 

Sawyer. There's but one thing you can do for 

me. (A pause.) 

Hopkins. Suppose I make you attorney for the 
Industrial Commission ? (Sazvyer shakes his head.) 
Be reasonable, Ned. 



34 A Friend of the People 

Sawyer. I can practice law without going into 
politics. 

Hopkins (keenly disappointed). What do you 
think the newspapers would say if I appointed you 
to the bench ! 

Sawyer. If the Supreme Court reinstated me at 
the bar I'm surely qualified for the bench. 

Hopkins. I'd be attacked in every reactionary 
newspaper in the State. 

Sawyer. I don't see that they are pouring out 
any eulogies at present. The Lawrence suicide ap- 
pears to have given them a world of inspiration. 

Hopkins (gloomily). Yes. 

Sawyer. What a sensation it would cause if 
they knew all ! 

Hopkins (sternly). What do you mean? 

Sawyer. Precisely what you think I mean. 

Hopkins (calming himself). Ah ... as I 
supposed. Those letters that were stolen — you 
have them? 

Sawyer. Perhaps. 

Hopkins. You'll give me the letters? 

Sawyer. Am I to be appointed? 

Hopkins. I'll think it over. There's no hurry. 
The appointment of Lawrence's successor can't be 
decently made for some days. 

Sawyer. No ; there's no hurry. But let us un- 
derstand each other. I'll be frank with you. I in- 
tend to keep those letters whatever happens. If 
you appointed me for the unexpired term I should 
have to run again. (Smiles.) I may need the 
support of your political machine. 

Hopkins. Then it's a bargain you wish to make ? 

Sawyer. Yes. 



A Friend of the People 35 

(Dolan comes in and goes to writing table and 
Hopkins becomes more uneasy.) 

Hopkins (his tone and manner changing). Well, 
Ned, I want to talk the matter over with you more 
fully. When can you come in again. 

Sawyer (carelessly). Any time. 

Hopkins. Make it tomorrow afternoon about 
3 :30. 

Sawyer. Very well. (He goes out.) 

(Hopkins shudders and sinks into chair by table.) 

Dolan (eagerly). What's up, Governor? 

Hopkins (in collapse). I don't feel well. 

v (curtain) 




ACT II 

The scene is the same as in Act I ; time the after- 
noon of the follozving day. Dolan is seated in re- 
volving chair reading a small book bound in calf. 
Pendleton enters from inner office. 

Dolan. Say, Pendy ! 
Pendleton. Yes, sir. 

Dolan. Have you seen the Governor about that 
meeting ? 

Pendleton. The League of Justice meeting? 
Dolan. Yes. 

Pendleton. No, sir, I haven't seen him. 
Dolan. Well don't tear things loose till you do. 
(Telephone rings, Dolan anszvers.) 

Dolan. Hello! Yes, this is Dolan. (Pause.) 
Yes, I recognize your voice. (Pause.) Tonight? 
All right at the Capital Hotel. All right I'll find 
out what time it will be convenient for him. Good 
work, Tom. Good! Good! (Hangs up; rising in 
great glee.) That's where I put one over, hm? 
Nothing like doing a little practical politics once in 
a while — what do you think, Pendy — hm? 

Pendleton. I don't — 

Dolan. Don't get me, hm? Well, I'll tell you. 
I suggested to some of the boys of the Good Govern- 
ment League that we might do something to offset 



38 A Friend of the People 

this Lawrence reaction — told 'em it wouldn't be a 
bad idea to celebrate the adoption of the Constitu- 
tional amendments. So they're going to have a 
mass-meeting in front of the hotel tonight — a big 
jollification and serenade, something spontaneous, 
hm — speech by the Governor. What do you think 
of it — hm? 

Pendleton (his eyes sparkling). Excellent idea! 

Dolan. Worse than that, Pendy. It's a stroke 
of genius at the psychological moment. 

(Hopkins enters from private office with his hat 
on.) 

Dolan. I say, Governor, Pendleton is getting 
ready for another meeting of the League of Justice. 

Hopkins. Hm. Better not have one for awhile. 

Dolan (to Hopkins). Better adjourn the League 
sine die, don't you think? 

Hopkins. No more meetings for the present, 
Pendleton. 

Pendleton (gloomily). Very well, sir. 

Hopkins. And Pendleton, I'd rather not have 
Miss Colton taking an active interest in politics in 
the future. 

Pendleton. Good gracious, sir, it would break 
her heart. 

Hopkins (smiling at Dolan). I'll take care of 
that, Pendleton. 

Pendleton. Very well, sir. 

Dolan. Oh, before I forget it. That Good 
Government meeting is all right. They'll be down 
to the hotel with a brass band. It's up to you to 
set the time. 

Hopkins (laughing). You're a wonder, Larry. 
(Dolan beams.) I'll be ready for them — let me see. 
. . . make it about nine. 



A Friend of the People 39 

Dolan. All right, sir. 

(Hopkins goes out.) 

Pendleton (sadly). Well, you've had your way. 

Dolan. Yes. And I was right too. You've got 
a lot to learn about practical politics, Pendy. 

Pendleton. I suppose so. I've had very little 
to do with politics and politicians. With you politics 
is a profession. 

Dolan. Yes, I inherited a taste for politics. 

(Dunstan enters. Dolan is still glancing through 
little book.) 

Dunstan. Hello! studying law, Larry? 

Dolan (putting book on desk). Law be hanged! 
This isn't law. 

Dunstan. No? 

Dolan. A volume of the codes. 

Dunstan (laughs). Oh. Made at the last 
session? 

Dolan (smiles). Hardly. Our boys did a lot of 
work but not this much. 

Dunstan. They were certainly industrious. 

Dolan. Attended to everything God forgot, 
hm — everything from bird cages to accident in- 
surance. 

Dunstan. And now Pendleton is supplying 
editorials to all the Administration organs proving 
it was the brainiest parliamentary body that ever 
was. 

Pendleton. Mr. Dunstan, you're a bigot — that's 
what you are! 

Dolan. Good for you, Pendy! 

Dunstan. Ah, a bigot? 

Pendleton. Yes, a bigot; intolerant of every- 
body who wants clean government. 



40 A Friend of the People 

Dunstan. Tolerance, my dear fellow, is the 
virtue demanded of the man on the other side. 
Have you got it? 

(Pendleton turns wrathfully on his heels and 
goes into private office.) 

Dunstan. What a hypocrite ! 

Dolan. I don't agree with you, Fred. The 
least you can say of him is that he's sincere. 

Dunstan. Sincere? 

Dolan. Don't you believe anybody's sincere? 

Dunstan. Why, my dear fellow, I believe the 
world is full of sincerity. It's the fat-witted sin- 
cerity of the dear people that keeps reformers alive. 

Dolan. Say, Fred, you ought to take something 
for that. (Rises.) You're eaten up with cynicism. 
(Dunstan regards him in mock amazement. Dolan 
starts for his private office.) 

Dunstan. Hold on here, I'd like to discuss that 
with you. 

Dolan. I've got a job in here with a typewriter. 
Sit down for a while. 

Dunstan. Where is the Governor? 

Dolan. He'll be in shortly. Take a chair and 
read your own paper. It'll put you to sleep. 

(Dolan goes in. Dunstan sits down and takes a 
newspaper Hie. Presently Mrs. Foster enters.) 

Dunstan (rising hastily and going forward to 
greet her). Well, Mrs. Foster. Welcome to our 
capital ! 

Mrs. Foster. How do you do, Fred. (They 
shake hands cordially.) 

Dunstan. I knew you were in town. 

Mrs. Foster. I'm of so great importance the 
parochial dailies of the capital always mention my 
arrival. 



A Friend of the People 41 

Dunstan. Oh, I knew it before I saw it in the 
papers. (She looks inquiringly.) Yes, I met Miss 
Colton here yesterday. 

Mrs. Foster. Ah, you did? 

Dunstan. Yes, what a busy politician she's get- 
ting to be. 

Mrs. Foster. So I believe. 

Dunstan. A sort of lieutenant-governor, isn't 
she? 

Mrs. Foster. Is it as bad as that? 

Dunstan (laughing). That's what the press 
gang are saying. I saw her motoring with the 
Governor yesterday. (Mrs. Foster starts.) And 
I suppose they were discussing affairs of State. 
For certainly a bachelor and a maid could find 
nothing more to their taste on a pleasure drive in 
the merry month of May. 

Mrs. Foster. No. I suppose not. (Slightly 
overcome she sits down.) I wonder if the Gov- 
ernor is in! 

Dunstan. No, he isn't. I'm waiting for him. 
. . . A very charming girl — your husband's 
niece. 

Mrs. Foster. Yes, indeed she is. 

Dunstan. And very ardently in sympathy with 
the Administration. 

Mrs. Foster. Naturally, considering her uncle's 
relations with the Governor. 

Dunstan. It just occurs to me, Mrs. Foster, 
that a little romance may be in progress right un- 
der my nose. You won't let me be scooped, will 
you? 

Mrs. Foster. Scooped? 

Dunstan. Yes. I think Dolan knows, but he's 
so close-mouthed! Now in the old days you used 



42 A Friend of the People 

to give me many a good piece of news. It would 
be worth while to announce the engagement of our 
bachelor Governor. 

Mrs. Foster. Yes, I suppose it would. 

Dunstan. You appreciate that. 

Mrs. Foster. Indeed I do. And I'll not let you 
be scooped. So you think it's getting to that point. 

Dunstan (laughing). You know I have a well- 
developed instinct for news. ... I have my 
suspicions. 

Mrs. Foster. How interesting! And is your 
only concern that of a newspaper man on the qui vive 
for news? You know I used to think you were 
very fond of Rosalie. 

Dunstan. That I — was? — Oh yes, I was, and I 
am yet. 

Mrs. Foster. And I used to think she liked you. 

Dunstan. You did? Honestly? 

Mrs. Foster. Yes, I know she did. 

Dunstan (sadly). I'm afraid she doesn't now. 
Politics, I fear, has estranged us. She's a little 
bigot in politics. 

Mrs. Foster (smiling). Rosalie is a bit tem- 
peramental and a little whimsical in her enthusiasms. 
I'm afraid you are not a very aggressive wooer. 
(He looks at her interrogatively.) Rosalie is a 
castle that must be stormed. The attack must be 
furious. 

Dunstan (lugubriously). I'm afraid it's too 
late. The enemy has taken it. 

Mrs. Foster. No, it's not too late. (He braces 
up and is all attention.) Rosalie isn't in love. 
When a girl is in love her feelings express them- 
selves violently, like superlatives, and she is full of 
joy. Rosalie is occupied with political problems. 



A Friend of the People 43 

Dunstan. Then — 

Mrs. Foster. She is the sort of girl that a man 
must go to straight as a bullet, and seize not 
gently, by the tip of the wing, but aggressively, like 
a policeman. (He laughs.) 

(Pendleton appears at door of inner office. Mrs. 
Foster rises.) 

Mrs. Foster. Oh, Mr. Pendleton, I want to see 
you. 

Pendleton. Will you come in? 

(Mrs. Foster nods and turning to Dunstan bozvs 
by way of leavetaking and goes in. Dunstan rubs 
his chin thoughtfully. He is in a deep brozvn study 
as Dolan returns.) 

Dunstan. So, Larry, you think I'm eaten up 
with cynicism? 

Dolan (laughs). Kind of got under your skin, 
did I ? Hm. The fat-witted public ! You think the 
people need a guardian? 

Dunstan. That's one way of putting it. 

Dolan (triumphantly). And old Abe Lincoln, 
hm — he didn't know what he was talking about 
when he said you can't fool all of 'em all the time. 

Dunstan. What old Abe meant was that you 
can't fool them in precisely the same way. Per- 
haps you can't. But you can hand them a gold 
brick this week and short change them the next. 

Dolan. Think so? 

Dunstan. That's what politicians are doing to 
them right along — the popular ones! 

Dolan. You think it's a crime to be popular. 
Dunstan. No; only a ground for suspicion. 
Dolan. That's why you love to smash the Gov- 
ernor, I suppose. 



44 A Friend of the People 

Dunstan. Wrong verb, Larry. (Gesticulates 
as though gently snapping a whip.) Flick — that's 
the verb. Occasionally I flick him on the raw. 

Dolan. Well, you ought to quit. What's the 
matter with you fellows on the Post — got a griev- 
ance? 

Dunstan. Nary a grievance. We hae our 
doots. 

Dolan. Ah, rot! 

Dunstan. By the way what about Trask and the 
Octopus ? 

Dolan. What are you driving at? 

(Enter Governor Hopkins zvith Cyrus Foster. 
Foster is in the sixties. He is a bon viveur and 
looks it, but wears a somewhat jaunty air the affecta- 
tion of which is an effort. For an old man his at- 
tire is almost foppish. His laughter is heard just be- 
fore they enter. Foster enters first and he is talking. 
His voice is somewhat husky. It is the voice of the 
man who likes good liquor.) 

Foster. It will take her off her pins, Charles, my 
boy. She hasn't the faintest suspicion. Well I 
congratulate — (he sees Dunstan and Dolan and stops 
talking. Bows to them.) Dunstan, how are you? 

Dunstan. I'm very well, thank you. (To Hop- 
kins.) How do you do, Governor. 

Hopkins (bows stiffly). How are you, sir. (To 
Foster.) Come right in. (He starts for private 
office.) 

Dunstan. Oh, by the way, Governor, just a 
moment, please. 

Hopkins. Well, sir? 

Dunstan. They've wired me from the office to 
see you about the resolutions of the Bar Association. 

Hopkins. Resolutions? What resolutions? 



A Friend of the People 45 

Foster (to Dolan). Looks as though this is go- 
ing to be one of those newspaper interviews. (Dolan 
smiles and nods. Foster sits dozvn.) 

Dunstan. Oh, I thought you heard. Eulogiz- 
ing Judge Lawrence and deploring the persecution 
that drove him to suicide. 

Hopkins. Hm. Well? 

Dunstan. Do you care to discuss the matter? 

Foster (rising and walking tozvard zvindow). 
I should think he had more important business to 
talk about. 

Hopkins. I have no interest in the Bar Associa- 
tion . . . except as an humble member. 

Dunstan. But isn't it a matter of personal in- 
terest to you inasmuch as it is understood that the 
Administration was in sympathy with the recall 
movement ? 

Hopkins. Understood? By whom? 

Dunstan. I believe the newspapers have said 
so. 

Hopkins. I have nothing to say on the subject, 
further than that the Administration is proud of the 
enemies it has made. I have dedicated my services 
to the people of this State for the purification of its 
politics and the uplift of my fellow man, and I am 
not to be intimidated by intriguing politicians. 

Foster (impatiently). Say, Dunstan, what do 
you want to be bothering the Governor for? He's 
a busy man. 

Dunstan. Pardon me, Mr. Foster. I'm attend- 
ing to my duty. (To Hopkins.) Then you think 
the Bar Association is controlled by your enemies. 

Hopkins. I have not said so. 

Foster. What damned nonsense ! 



46 A Friend of the People 

Dunstan. Beg your pardon. I thought you im- 
plied — 

Hopkins. Has the Bar Association charged me 
with having persecuted anybody? 

Dunstan. As I understand it no names are 
mentioned in the resolutions. 

Hopkins. Very well. (He again turns to go.) 

Dunstan. Oh, beg your pardon ; one word more. 
(Hopkins again turns, and shows signs of im- 
patience.) Have you heard of the indignation 
meeting to be held down in the city ? 

Hopkins (much annoyed). No, I have not. 

Dunstan. It has been called to voice public sen- 
timent on the crime against the bench. 

Hopkins. And pray what's that? 

Dolan (who has been writing during the con- 
versation). Sounds like the name of a melodrama. 

Foster (disgusted). Exactly. (Goes toward 
Hopkins' private office.) Well, I'll see you, Gov- 
ernor, when Dunstan gets through with his duty. 
(He goes in.) 

Dunstan. The crime of the century has refer- 
ence to the movement that ended with the Lawrence 
tragedy. 

Hopkins (sneers). An indignation meeting! 
The interests must be behind that. (Again turns 
to go.) 

Dunstan. Shall I quote you? 

Hopkins (his voice tremulous with rage). You 
may quote just what I said. 

Dunstan. Just what you said. I never mis- 
quote. 

Hopkins. Hm ! (He zvalks toward his office.) 
Dunstan (near door at back). So long, Larrj 



A Friend of the People 47 

(Dunstan goes out. Hopkins turns around.) 

Dolan. Seems to think he had a fine interview. 

Hopkins. That fellow irritates me. I know he 
doesn't like me. 

Dolan. And the Post doesn't like you either. 
They're behind all this agitation, and they're mak- 
ing a lot of noise. 

Hopkins. Oh, pshaw, it'll blow over soon. 
(Rises and paces up and down, evidently zvorried.) 
I'm not going to let it bother me. (A pause.) I'm 
expecting that fellow Sawyer in this afternoon. 
He's on my nerves worse than anything. 

Dolan. Want me to get rid of him? 

Hopkins (still walking and in a reverie). Listen, 
Larry, I'm afraid I've got to give that fellow what 
he wants. 

Dolan. You don't mean it! 

Hopkins. Yes, I do. 

Dolan. Why, everybody knows his record — the 
looting of the estate and the whole business. 

Hopkins (looks around in alarm). Yes, but he 
has been reinstated at the bar. Notwithstanding his 
conviction he stands well in his profession. You 
know there has always been a doubt of his guilt. 

Dolan. What job does he want? 

Hopkins. He wants to go on the bench — to fill 
the vacancy. 

Dolan. Great Scott! You can't give him that. 

Hopkins. I don't need to appoint him right 
away. (Pause.) There's lots of time. You know 
how these things die out. 

Dolan. The papers will make an awful roar. 

Hopkins. Larry, this man was a friend of mine 
when I needed a friend. 



48 A Friend of the People 

Dolan. Well, Governor, that's different. The 
hell with the papers when it's a case of standing by 
a friend. Though it's asking a whole lot of you. 
(A Pause.) 

Hopkins (coming out of reverie). And besides 
I'm afraid I can't afford to turn him down. (Dolan 
looks inquiringly.) That is, . . . The papers 
will shriek, won't they? 

Dolan. They surely will. (A pause.). Has he 
been practicing law right along? 

Hopkins. Yes, he's been in Trask's law depart- 
ment. 

Dolan (startled) with the Blue Mountain — ! 
Working for Trask ? That's bad ! Damned bad ! 

Hopkins. But he's out of there now. 

Dolan. Dunstan was asking about Trask. 

Hopkins. He was? 

Dolan. Says the Post wants to know when 
you're going to drive him out of politics. 

Hopkins. Hm! 

Dolan. Governor, if I were you, hm? I'd write 
a sizzling message to the Legislature on the im- 
portance of retrenchment and economy. That's 
what the people are ripe for. It will take their 
minds off political frame-ups. 

Hopkins (laughing). Where did you get that 
idea? * 

Dolan. Learned that years ago when I was 
Mayor Patton's secretary. Remember Boss Flan- 
nigan, hm? 

Hopkins. Old Pat Flannigan? 

Dolan. Yes, the Lord have mercy on him. 
Heard him say to Patton one day : "Thomas, no mat- 
ter what false gods the people are running after, you 
can get them back to the true religion by appealing 



A Friend of the People 49 

to their pocket nerve. Be strong- for retrenchment 
and low taxes." 

Hopkins. Sounds good. But the trouble is the 
cost of government has been going up. (Smiles.) 
Reform comes high. 

Dolan. That's not your fault. The Legislature 
went crazy. 

Hopkins. I should say it did. 

(Hopkins goes into his office. Dolan takes some 
papers and is about to go into his office when Mrs. 
Foster comes out of Pendleton's room.) 

Dolan. Oh, Mrs. Foster, how do you do. 

Mrs. Foster. How do you do, Mr. Dolan. I've 
just been in talking to Mr. Pendleton about Rosalie. 
Did you know she was going to make a speech at 
the League of Justice meeting? 

Dolan (smiles). There isn't going to be any 
meeting. 

Mrs. Foster. So I've just learned. We're 
afraid that Rosalie is becoming a little too prom- 
inent in politics. 

Dolan (confidentially in a lozv tone after glanc- 
ing round at the Governor's door). Between our- 
selves — hm — that's what he thinks. 

Mrs. Foster. The Governor? 

Dolan. Yes. 

Mrs. Foster (agitated). Oh. ... He told 
you so? 

Dolan. Yes, and he's probably told her. 

Mrs. Foster. I hope he has. 

Dolan (looking for a book in rack). If he hasn't 
he will. 

Mrs. Foster (seeking information). I believe 
they were motoring yesterday. 



50 A Friend of the People 

Dolan. Yes, the Governor has a new car, and 
it's a beauty. 

Mrs. Foster. So Rosalie says. 

Dolan. Guess she'll be doing a lot of riding in 
it now. 

Mrs. Foster. Oh, yes, she will. (A pause. 
Dolan nozv busy searching for paper in drazver.) 
Of course Rosalie oughtn't to be so active in public 
affairs. And I'm glad the Governor sees the folly 
of it. 

Dolan. Yes, yes, — I thought he would — didn't 
you? 

Mrs. Foster (rises). Oh, yes, I thought he 
would. 

Dolan (finds paper. Smiles knowingly). Nat- 
urally, hm? (Rises.) You're not going? 

Mrs. Foster (going toward door). Yes, I sup- 
pose the Governor is busy. 

Dolan. Oh, I don't think so. Mr. Foster is 
with him. 

Mrs. Foster. My husband ? 

(Governors door opens.) 

Hopkins (just inside doorway). Larry, when 
Sawyer comes tell him to wait. 

Dolan. All right, sir. 

(Mrs. Foster has turned at sound of Governor's 
door and she comes forzvard.) 

Hopkins (sees Mrs. Foster and comes out of his 
office) . Edith ! you here ? 

(Dolan goes into his private office.) 

Mrs. Foster (pleasantly). Have I given you a 
shock ? 

Hopkins. You startled me a little. I didn't 



A Friend of the People 51 

know anybody was here. (He shakes hands cor- 
dially.) I'm glad to see you. 

Mrs. Foster. I came in to inquire about Rosalie. 
(She regards him closely.) 

Hopkins (somewhat startled). About Rosalie? 

Mrs. Foster. Yes. . . . Cyrus has prob- 
ably told you that he has been worried about her. 
He thought she was going to speak at a meeting 
of the League of Justice. 

Hopkins (smiling). He's inside there now. 

Mrs. Foster. So Mr. Dolan was just saying. 

Hopkins. Yes. We've talked about Rosalie. 
I've put a stop to it. 

Mrs. Foster. What's the matter? You look 
terribly worried. 

Hopkins. I am terribly worried. 

Mrs. Foster. What's the trouble? 

Hopkins. Oh, this Lawrence matter has upset 
me somewhat. The newspapers aren't any too kind 
to me these days, and you know I'm not used to 
being attacked. (He throws himself into a chair.) 

Mrs. Foster. I've never seen you look so de- 
pressed. Why, Charles, I'm astonished that a big 
strong man like you should let the newspapers 
affect him so. 

Hopkins (rising). Oh, I suppose it is foolish to 
let them worry me. (Paces up and down.) Life 
would be easy if we could dispose of its troubles 
by ignoring them. (Sinks down again in a state 
of depression.) 

Mrs. Foster. You look as though you expected 
a visit from his Satanic majesty. 

Hopkins (looks at her in astonishment). More 
proof of your wonderful power of intuition. 

Mrs. Foster (laughing) . Aha ! Then you have 



52 A Friend of the People 

a secret ! When one has anything to hide, one 
should lose no time in revealing it — to the right 
confessor. Come, tell me all about it. 

Hopkins. I was only alluding to an expected 
visitor. I'd as lief meet the old boy himself as the 
one that's coming. (Looks at his watch.) 

Mrs. Foster. Really! What's the nature ot 
this terrible expected apparition? 

Hopkins (gloomily thinking aloud). I don't 
know what to do about him. 

Mrs. Foster. Let me suggest. (He shakes his 
head, and has a far-away look in his eyes.) There 
was a time, Charles, when you came to me with 
all your troubles. Do you begrudge me an interest 
in them now? 

Hopkins. Oh, don't say that, Edith ! (He rises 
and looks toward his private office apprehensively.) 
I wish he'd go. 

(Mrs. Foster goes to door and knocks. Foster 
appears.) 

Foster. Oh, it's you, dear. 

Mrs. Foster. Yes, I came in about Rosalie. 

Foster. Well, its all right. (Smiles knowingly 
at Hopkins.) Charles has fixed it. Nothing more 
to worry about — not a thing. 

Mrs. Foster. Then it's all right. 

Foster. Absolutely. Rosalie will be kept out 
of politics after this. (He is bursting with a big 
secret.). The Governor will pass a special act if 
necessary keeping her out. Eh, Governor? 

Hopkins (trying to smile). I guess there'll be 
no need of that. 

Mrs. Foster (to Foster). Oh, the Governor and 
I have some important matters to talk over. 

Foster. Well, I like that! That means three 



A Friend of the People 53 

are a crowd, I suppose. What are the important 
matters that I should not hear I'd like to know? 
(He beams on his wife.) 

Mrs. Foster. You may hear them all, dear ; but 
you're so impatient and I fear you'd be bored to 
death. As a matter of fact they are not important, 
as you ought to know, else you'd be told all about 
them. 

Hopkins. Mrs. Foster wishes to give me some 
advice. 

Foster. Well, she can certainly do that, Charles. 
(To Mrs. Foster.) W r hat a great statesman you'd 
make! 

Mrs. Foster. Now, Cyrus! 

Foster. Well, politician, then. You ought to 
be chairman of the Governor's campaign committee. 

Mrs. Foster (impatiently). Nonsense! Don't 
be silly. Come, now, I must get back to the hotel 
in a little while. 

Foster. Oh, you want me to go. 

Mrs. Foster. No, stay if you like, while I talk 
over this Minimum Wage question with Charles. 

Foster (sputtering). Minimum — what — No, I'll 
be damned if I do. I prefer to go to the Capitol 
Club and have a high ball. (He goes out.) 

Mrs. Foster. Dear old Cyrus! Now let me 
hear what the trouble is. You know I feel some- 
what responsible for the Governor of the State. 

Hopkins. Responsible? (She smiles and nods.) 
Oh, I see, my sponsor. (Somezvhat lugubriously.) 
Yes, indeed, you are responsible. You are more 
than my sponsor; you are my creator. 

Mrs. Foster. Oh, don't be so solemn. Come 
now, for the present let me be no more than your — 
your friend. What a strange sound the word has ! 



54 A Friend of the People 

Tell me, who is this man that gives you so much 
concern ? 

Hopkins (suddenly alert). Come to think of it, 
you know him. You were speaking to him yester- 
day — right here. It's Ned Sawyer. 

Mrs. Foster. Ned Sawyer! (A pause.) He 
was my first beau. 

Hopkins. Your first beau? 

Mrs. Foster. When I was a bashful maid of 
nineteen. Come don't be so melancholy. You look 
as though you were going to prison. What is the 
trouble about Ned Sawyer? 

Hopkins. The trouble is this — he wants an ap- 
pointment — wants to go on the bench. (Slight 
pause.) Oh, it's impossible ! You know the scrape 
he was in, the — 

Mrs. Foster. Yes. I read about it — something 
about an estate. But supposing he does want an 
appointment, you don't have to appoint him, do you ? 

Hopkins. I'm afraid I do. 

Mrs. Foster. I don't understand. 

Hopkins. When he got into that trouble, Edith, 
I was connected with the Public Administrator's 
office. The office had charge of the estate. It was 
a case of no heirs. And — 

Mrs. Foster. Yes, I remember now — a case of 
a fictitious heir, wasn't it? 

Hopkins. That was it. And you see I was 
kind of responsible — the office having charge of it. 
It was a case of defrauding the State. The money 
should have gone to the State there being no heirs, 
but it went to a dummy. 

Mrs. Foster. But what claim has Sawyer — 
Hopkins. Oh, he hasn't any claim exactly. You 
see we were friends, and he might have been ugly 



A Friend of the People 55 

about it — he might have — well you know how it is 
in law. You can easily put the blame on the other 
fellow. 

Mrs. Foster. Oh. (A pause.) Then it's a 
debt of gratitude he — 

Hopkins. He doesn't put it that way. Of course 
in a way I'm grateful, but the situation now is 
such that he might give my political enemies a lot 
of aid and comfort. 

Mrs. Foster. Perhaps you are needlessly 
alarmed. I can't believe that Ned Sawyer would 
be so contemptible. As a young man he was a 
very lovely character. Suppose I talk to him? 

Hopkins. What could you say to him? 

Mrs. Foster. At this moment I haven't any idea 
as to what I should say, but it won't take me long to 
fathom his mind. I think he'd do a great deal for 
me. I'm sure he'll be frank with me. 

Hopkins. Do you think he's still fond of you? 

Mrs. Foster. Would you regard that as in- 
credible ? 

Hopkins. Now, Edith, don't — 

Mrs. Foster (laughs) You know some men are 
curious sentimentalists. Their first impressions are 
lasting unless they have had the pleasure of being 
disillusioned. The truth is, Charles, if my mother 
hadn't been money-mad Ned Sawyer would now be 
my husband. 

Hopkins. Your husband? 

Mrs. Foster. For having been a dutiful daughter 
I became an indifferent wife. (She laughs.) 

Hopkins. Oh, don't — 

Mrs. Foster. And now I think I'll take to re- 
ligion. But meanwhile let me concern myself just 
a little more about your affairs. 



56 A Friend of the People 

(By this time Hopkins is beset with conflicting 
emotions. He doesn't know what to say. He looks 
at his watch.) 

Hopkins. He ought to be here soon. 

Mrs. Foster (a look of scorn Hashes across her 
face). Have you lost all your self-assurance? I'm 
astonished. Where is all the moral courage that 
used to carry you through? Does politics make 
cowards of men? 

Hopkins (who has been pacing the Ho or suddenly 
brightens up). Perhaps you can help me! 

Mrs. Foster. Whether I can or not I'll have a 
talk with Ned Sawyer. Though I don't see what 
harm he can do you. You don't seem to realize 
that you are beyond the reach of political enemies. 
Why the people regard you as the ideal statesman. 
Your position is unassailable. 

Hopkins (speaking softly). Edith, let me tell you 
something. This man Sawyer has something that 
— well I might as well tell you — he has some let- 
ters. They don't amount to much, but if they 
were published they'd be mighty embarrassing. 

Mrs. Foster (deeply interested). Letters you 
wrote ? 

Hopkins. One of them I wrote. The others 
are copies of letters written to me. 

Mrs. Foster. Oh, I see. (She smiles.) Yours 
is the besetting vice of the man that has the mis- 
fortune to write a fine Spencerian hand. 

Hopkins. What do you mean? 

Mrs. Foster. The letter-writing habit. You 
used to keep me busy burning them . . . once 
upon a time. 

Hopkins (flaring up, determination in his face). 
Oh, I've got to get them — I must get them. 



A Friend of the People 57 

Mrs. Foster. If they are so important it would 
seem there is nothing to be done but to appoint 
him. (Meditatively.) I'm sure there is a lot of 
good in Ned Sawyer. Why not give him a chance ? 

Hopkins. No, damn him, I'll not appoint him. 
I'll see him in hell first. 

Mrs. Foster. Then they're not so important. 
(A pause.) 

Hopkins (sinking into chair again and thinking 
aloud). And even if I appoint him he'll keep them 
to coerce me. 

Mrs. Foster. Won't give them to you if you 
appoint him? 

Hopkins. That's what he says . . . won't 
trust me. 

Mrs. Foster. He'll trust me. 

Hopkins. Are you sure of that? 

Mrs. Foster. Suppose you let me deal with him. 
Let me suggest to him that I hold the letters. 
(Hopkins meditates.) You'll trust me to hold 
them? (She regards him eagerly.) 

Hopkins. Of course I'll trust you. But how 
can I afford to appoint him. Think of what the 
newspapers will say! 

Mrs. Foster. Why think of that? It's well to 
remember that the newspapers of today start the 
kitchen fires of tomorrow. The only question, it 
seems to me is, Which you are the more afraid of 
having published — the letters or the appointment? 
If you wish I'll attend to Sawyer. 

Hopkins. I'm afraid you'll not be able to do 
anything with him. 

Mrs. Foster. There was a time, Charles, when 
you had great confidence in me. You used to say 
that I was the most tactful of women. 



58 A Friend of the People 

Hopkins. Yes, yes. 

Mrs. Foster. That I was the supreme strategist 
of my sex. 

Hopkins. Yes, I said that, and I meant it. But 
you have done so much for me, and now . . . 
yes, I'm something of an ingrate. Don't you think 
so? 

Mrs. Foster (laughing). An ingrate? Why, 
Charles, ours was an episode upon which nothing 
remains to be said. I thought you understood. You 
used to tell me I was a woman of strong character. 
The ability to forget is one of the evidences of 
strength. It is the weak who muse over their 
griefs when they should be employing them as the 
material of epigrams. 

Hopkins. I'm afraid that when you know all — 
when you — Oh, pshaw, I don't know, somehow I 
feel I haven't been square with you. 

Mrs. Foster. When I know all? What do you 
mean ? 

Hopkins. I mean — I mean that some day — 
some day when you think of all that you've done 
for me, perhaps you'll feel something of resentment. 

Mrs. Foster. Resentment? Is there anything 
to resent? I think we have always been perfectly 
frank with each other, have we not? 

Hopkins. Perfectly frank! . . . Yes, yes, 
but I ought to be strong enough to play the game 
through. Perhaps some day you'll despise me. 

Mrs. Foster. Despise you? For realizing your- 
self! Impossible! One must always give the rein 
to one's individuality. You know that has always 
been my philosophy. And I practiced it, too, else 
how could I have ever been faithless to Cyrus. 
Poor Cyrus ! He's so good ! 

Hopkins. Then you do really forgive me? 



A Friend of the People 59 

Mrs. Foster. With my whole heart. Have I 
not always been unselfish in whatever concerned 
you? 

Hopkins. Yes, dear, you have hazarded every- 
thing for me. 

Mrs. Foster. And now whatever the pangs our 
separation may cause me, they will be assuaged by 
your — by the feeling that after all out of evil has 
come good. I inspired your ambition and you are 
justifying the only faith I had that was worth 
while, the faith in your civic patriotism. I'm not 
altogether wicked you know. I've been a bad wife, 
but I'm a good citizen — don't you think? 

Hopkins. You are a noble woman. 

Mrs. Foster. You say that some day I may 
despise you. If so it will not be for anything done 
to me. All that I ask is that as Governor of the 
State you atone for us both. (A pause.) Well, 
now I must help you. 

Hopkins. I'm afraid you'll not succeed. 

Mrs. Foster. When is he to be here? 

Hopkins. I expect him any minute. (Looks at 
his zvatch.) 

Mrs. Foster. Then you go, and leave me here. 

Hopkins (hesitates). Very well, I'll go. When 
shall I see you again? 

Mrs. Foster. Come to our apartments this 
evening. There you can tell me everything. 

Hopkins (hesitates). I don't think that — 
Mrs. Foster. Cyrus has to go down to the city 
and Rosalie has some sociological meeting to at- 
tend. I'll be alone. You must come. You told 
me you had much to tell me. 

Hopkins I'll be up about 8 o'clock. Edith, there 
never was a woman in the world like you. You've 



60 A Friend of the People 

been my guardian angel. You have never failed. 
And I— 

Mrs. Foster. You are a Governor who needs a 
guardian. And I must do some good in the world. 

(Dolan enters.) 

Hopkins. I'll not be back till five, Larry. 

Dolan. All right, sir. 

Mrs. Foster. Oh, to make an appointment you 
issue a commission, don't you? 

Hopkins. Yes. 

Mrs. Foster. Then I suppose if it's arranged 
satisfactorily you'll have Mr. Dolan make one out? 

Hopkins (hesitates). Yes. 

(Dolan who is busy at table looks up inquiringly.) 

Hopkins. We're talking about Sawyer. Mrs. 
Foster is going to have a talk with him. (Looks 
around.) I think I left my hat inside. (Goes into 
private office.) 

Dolan. You know Mr. Sawyer — do you? 

Mrs. Foster. Yes. 

Dolan. This is a bad time for him to be look- 
ing for a job. This Lawrence agitation is enough 
to worry a man, don't you think, hm ? 

Mrs. Foster. Yes, it is. 

Dolan. Queer world this, hm? The other day 
the whole State was hammering Lawrence and now 
he seems to be looked upon as a martyr. That's 
the way public opinion goes. 

Mrs. Foster. Very unreliable, isn't is, Mr. 
Dolan ? 

Dolan. The trouble with the people is that they 
fly off the handle. That's the trouble now. They're 
blaming the Administration for the death of Judge 
Lawrence. If he had lived they'd have recalled 
him. 



A Friend of the People 



61 



(Hopkins returns, hat in hand. At the same 
moment Sazvyer enters at back. Hopkins is startled 
and embarrassed.) 

Sawyer. Am I late? (He boivs to Mrs. Foster.) 
(Dolan goes into his private office.) 
Hopkins. Well— er— yes, Ned, I've been wait- 
ing for you. 

Sawyer. Sorry. I couldn't get here sooner. 
Hopkins. I've just been called away on some 
important business. 

Sawyer. Shall I call again? 
Mrs. Foster. Won't you stay and have a little 
talk with me ? 

Hopkins. Yes, Ned. Sit down and have a talk 
with Mrs. Foster. She has just been reminisc- 
ing about you. 

Sawyer (to Mrs. Foster). About me? (She 
nods and smiles.) 

Hopkins (looking at his watch and appearing to 
be in a great hurrv). Yes, sit down, Ned, and per- 
haps I'll see you later ... if I can get back. 
(Hopkins goes out.) 

Mrs. Foster. I've been waiting for you, Ned. 
Sawyer. Waiting for me? 
Mrs. Foster. Yes,— it seems like old times- 
waiting for you. 
Sawyer. Edith ! 

Mrs. Foster. Yes, Edith! That's what you 
used to call me. Now come here and sit down. 
I have something to say to you. You had an en- 
gagement with Governor Hopkins. 
Sawyer. Yes. 

Mrs. Foster (smiling and sitting down). I'm 
keeping it for him. 



62 A Friend of the People 

Sawyer. You ?. 

Mrs. Foster. Wouldn't you prefer to talk to me ? 
Come sit down. (Sees that he regards her in aston- 
ishment.) Now I'm the Governor's agent — full au- 
thority — he has told me everything. 

Sawyer. Everything ? 

Mrs. Foster. You want an appointment, he 
wants some letters. 

Sawyer. So that scoundrel — 

Mrs. Foster. Calm yourself Ned. Don't lose 
your temper. 

Sawyer. The coward! 

Mrs. Foster. Oh, now, don't talk that way. 

Sawyer. So, he gets behind a woman's skirts 
to— 

Mrs. Foster. Hush! Ned! 

Sawyer. I'm sorry, Edith, to find you mixing 
yourself up in this affair — serving his purpose. Oh, 
I'm sorry to see you — 

Mrs. Foster. Don't be sorry, Ned. 

Sawyer. You and Governor Hopkins are friends, 
warm friends, I believe. 

Mrs. Foster. Yes, we are friends. 

Sawyer. And that is why you are taking a hand 
in this matter? 

Mrs. Foster. Not altogether. I would befriend 
you. I have confidence in you, Ned. I am very 
sorry for you. I believe you will do right. I 
want you to trust me. He has told me all. 

Sawyer. What has he told you? 

Mrs. Foster. He has told me about the letters — 
that— 



A Friend of the People 63 

Sawyer. Yes — yes — what did he tell you? 

Mrs. Foster. That they concern him and he 
wants them, and that you want an appointment to 
the bench. 

Sawyer. Did he tell you I stole them? 

Mrs. Foster (astounded). You stole them? 

Sawyer. Yes, from Luke Trask. Did he tell 
you that? 

Mrs. Foster. Luke Trask! 

Sawyer. Not a nice thing to do, was it? 

Mrs. Foster. You stole them? 

Sawyer. Yes — stole them. The stain of the 
prison, you know, is on my soul. Did he ever tell 
you why I went to prison? 

Mrs. Foster (bewildered). You — stole — from 
Trask! By whom were they written? — not by — 

Sawyer (laughing bitterly). Yes, he wrote them. 
Your friend Governor Hopkins — our pure unadul- 
terated civic patriot. (Mrs. Foster is transfixed. 
She is about to speak, but stares into space.) Did 
he tell you that I was his dupe, that I saved him 
from the penitentiary? (A pause.) 

Mrs. Foster (slowly coming to her senses. 
Shakes her head.) No, he never told me that. 

Sawyer. I thought not. 

Mrs. Foster. So, that's how it was ! 

Sawyer. Edith, you believe me, don't you? 
(He takes her hand.) You had faith in me once. 

Mrs. Foster. I believe you, Ned. Rest assured 
of that. But tell me, what about these letters — 
w hat — do you mean to say that he and Trask have 
been in correspondence? 



64 A Friend of the People 

Sawyer. That's exactly what I mean to say. 
And I've got the proof. 

Mrs. Foster. No wonder he's worried ! What is 
the correspondence about? 

Sawyer. You know that Judge Lawrence com- 
mitted suicide. 

Mrs. Foster. Yes. 

Sawyer. Do you know that Trask inspired the 
recall, and that Hopkins put the State machine into 
the fight at Trask's request? 

Mrs. Foster. Do you mean — 

Sawyer. I mean that Trask wanted to get 
Lawrence off the bench, and that Hopkins played 
into Trask's hands. 

Mrs. Foster. But why did he do that? He 
didn't have to do that. 

Sawyer. Because he wanted to avert opposition 
to his candidacy for the Senate. 

Mrs. Foster (rising, in a state of nervous en- 
thusiasm) . And you have the letters to prove that ? 

Sawyer. Yes, I have the letters. They may not 
prove all I say, but they'll prove enough. They'll 
at least prove that Hopkins was Trask's tool. 

Mrs. Foster (momentarily in deep thought. She 
sits down looking disappointed. Speaks slowly). 
But you must use them to purchase your appoint- 
ment. 

Sawyer (laughs ironically). Do you think he 
would appoint me to the bench? 

Mrs. Foster. He has virtually agreed to do so. 

Sawyer (shaking his head). No; he'll not do 
it. I don't expect him to do it. I never expected 
him to do it. 



A Friend of the People 



65 



Mrs. Foster (astonished). No? 
Sawyer. I just wanted to pass a tough job up 
to him. 

Mrs. Foster (gloomily). There isn't anything 
he wouldn't give you for those letters. 

Sawyer But you don't think he'd hesitate to 
double-cross me, do you?-get hold of the letters 
and then laugh at me? 

Mrs. Foster. I suppose he would if he could 
But the bargain he has agreed to is that I shall hold 
them. 

Sawyer. But I want him to get them. 
Mrs. Foster. I can't understand you at all. You 
want the judgeship, don't you? 

Sawyer No; that wouldn't do me much good. 
I'd have to run in less than a year, at the end of the 
unexpired term, and I'd be beaten Oh, it would 
help to rehabilitate me, of course, but I don t care 
much for that now. Nor would I care to be a 
judge if I had to blackmail my way to the bench. 

Mrs. Foster (her curiosity becoming intense). 
Then what is it you want from him? 

Sawyer. I want him to go the distance ; to prove 
himself to be just what I'm sure he is, and then 1 11 
feel that I'm more than justified in using the letters. 
Mrs Foster. I don't understand. 
Sawyer. I'm going to give him the letters. 
Mrs. Foster. Oh ! don't do that ! Give them to 



Sawyer. Will you give them to him? 
Mrs Foster. No, why should I do that. 
Sawyer. I want you to. (She looks in amaze- 



66 A Friend of the People 

ment. He laughs, then looks around.) Edith, you 
told me I could trust you? 

Mrs. Foster. Yes — yes. 

Sawyer. Then let him have the letters. Here 
they are. (Takes a small package out of his pocket 
and hands them to her. She grasps them eagerly. 
He smiles.) 

Mrs. Foster. But why should I give them to 
him? 

Sawyer (much amused at her bewilderment). 
Just to give him a chance to throw me down. 

Mrs. Foster. Why that's a stupid thing to do. 

Sawyer (laughing). Not so stupid as it seems. 
Edith, I'll tell you something just to show you I 
have confidence in you. Did it ever occur to you 
that a photographic copy of a document is for cer- 
tain purposes as good as the original? (A pause.) 

Mrs. Foster (her face lighting up with the dawn 
of perception). You have — 

Sawyer. I have photographic copies of those 
letters. 

Mrs. Foster. How clever! 

Sawyer. Now you see it's only fair to him to 
let him have the letters in consideration of his 
promise to appoint me. 

Mrs. Foster. I see. 

(Dolan returns.) 

Dolan (goes to table). I beg your pardon, 
there's a paper here I must get. 

Sawyer. I'll be going. 

Mrs. Foster. Come to the hotel tomorrow morn- 
ing — early. (Sawyer nods and goes out. Mrs. 
Foster, in a tense state of emotion, sits down.) 



A Friend of the People 67 

Dolan. Are you going to wait for the Gov- 
ernor ? 

Mrs. Foster. No, I'll be going in a moment. 
(She puts letters in purse.) By the way, Mr. Dolan, 
tell the Governor to have the commission made out. 

Dolan (surprised). Sawyer's? 

Mrs. Foster. Yes. 

(curtain) 




ACT III 

The scene is Mrs. Foster's boudoir in the Capitol 
Hotel At the back on the right side is an arched 
doorzvay opening through folding doors into a bed 
room. A bed and a bureau may be seen. In front 
of the doors is hung a portiere, drazvn aside. At 
the back on the left side is an arched bow window 
opening on to a small balcony. In front hangs a 
portiere drazvn aside. It is a moonlight night, and 
one can see the balcony clearly. In front a door 
opens into the boudoir from a hall-way on the left. 
The room is furnished after the style of a first-class 
hotel in a State capital having a population of about 
forty thousand. In the right wall is a fireplace, but 
there is no fire burning. On the mantel a large 
clock is ticking. There is a dressing table in the 
center of the room. Just back of it to the right is 
a large sofa piled high with colored pillozvs. There 
is a book on the sofa. Everything is subdued and 
faded in tone. 

At the rise of the curtain Mrs. Foster in a beauti- 
ful evening gown is seated at the dressing table. 
She is devoting herself to the finishing touches, using 
a pencil for her lashes, rouge for her lips, and occa- 
sionally looking at herself in a hand mirror. Her 
maid Lucy, a smart looking girl of about twenty-tzvo 
is standing near by rapt in admiration. 
Mrs. Foster. Now, Lucy, my necklace. 



70 A Friend of the People 

(Lucy goes into bedroom, finds the necklace on 
the bureau and returns.) 

(A knock is heard at the door followed by Foster. 
Mrs. Foster rises and stares in astonishment. Lucy 
goes into bedroom.) 

Mrs. Foster. What's the matter? 
Foster. Nothing, my dear. 
Mrs. Foster. I thought you had gone! 
Foster (smiling). I started, but when I got 
downstairs I changed my mind. 

Mrs. Foster. How silly! 

Foster. Do you want me to miss the mass- 
meeting, the big jollification? Hopkins would never 
forgive me. 

Mrs. Foster. But you've got an engagement. 
What will they think? 

Foster. I can telephone to the city and — 

Mrs. Foster (looking at the clock). Oh, that 
will never do. Miss so important an engagement 
with men who have come all the way from New 
York to discuss a business matter with you? 

Foster. My dear — 

Mrs. Foster. Just to attend a little political 
jollification. 

Foster. I can have it postponed till tomorrow 
morning. 

Mrs. Foster (reproachfully). But, my dear, are 
you going to leave me alone tomorrow? 

Foster (kissing her on the cheek). Would you 
rather have me go tonight! 

Mrs. Foster. I'd rather have it over with it, so 
that you can stay here for a while and not have 
business on your mind. (Looks at clock.) You 
haven't more than ten minutes to get the train. 



A Friend of the People 71 

Foster. That's more time than I need. You 
really think I ought to go, then. 

Mrs. Foster. Most assuredly I do— so that you 
can be with us tomorrow, dear. 

Foster. What will the Governor say? 
Mrs. Foster. Now, don't worry about him. 
Foster. Very well, sweetheart, I'll go. (He 
kisses her.). Good night. I hate like hell to go. 
Mrs. Foster. Good night. 
(He goes out. Mrs. Foster sits dozvn like one 
who has passed through a great crisis. She takes 
up necklace that has been lying on the table.) 

Mrs. Foster. Come, Lucy. (She hands the 
necklace to Lucy who puts it on Mrs. Foster.) 

Mrs. Foster. So Rosalie has made a politician 
of you. What day was it you registered? 
Lucy. Last Tuesday, Mrs. Foster. 
Mrs. Foster (admiring the necklace). And you 
never told me! Nobody has been telling me any- 
thing of late. Did Rosalie take you to the Reg- 
istrar's ? 

Lucy. Oh! yes, Mrs. Foster. 
Mrs. Foster. And now what great cause have 
you espoused? 
Lucy. Hm ? 

Mrs Foster. Haven't you discovered something 
wrong with the government, something that ought 
to be repaired? 

Lucy (mystified, shakes her head). The govern- 
ment? I don't know anything about that. 

Mrs. Foster. Strange! (A pause.) Are my 
lips too red? 

Lucy. They're just perfect. 



72 A Friend of the People 

Mrs. Foster. But you ought to take up some 
problem of government, Lucy, and solve it. 

Lucy (titters). I'm only going to vote, that's all. 

Mrs. Foster. Ah ; but that isn't enough. How- 
ever you'll learn. This is the day of quick culture. 
Before long you will have familiarized yourself with 
the mothers' pension question. I'll not be surprised 
to find you lecturing at some woman's club on the 
evils of white slavery and the vast importance of 
raising the age of consent. 

(Lucy smiles incredulously.) 

Mrs. Foster (holding a hand mirror off at arm's 
length and looking intently at her reflection). Lucy, 
am I growing old? 

Lucy. Oh, Mrs. Foster ! You look like a young 
girl. 

Mrs. Foster. You're a flatterer, Lucy. I'm 
taking on flesh. 

Lucy. Your figure is just as slender as Miss 
Rosalie's. 

Mrs. Foster. But my face — aren't there symp- 
toms of a double chin? 

Lucy. No, Mrs. Foster ; you're beautiful. Every- 
body says you are. 

Mrs. Foster. Everybody, Lucy? Too bad! I 
have no faith in everybody's judgment. Everybody 
is the crowd. The crowd knows nothing of beauty. 
It loves ugliness and vulgarity. But, Lucy, I must 
look more beautiful than ever tonight. So please 
do something with my hair. (Lucy proceeds to 
give Mrs. Foster's hair a few finishing touches. 
A knock is heard, and Miss Cotton's voice is heard.) 

Miss Colton. May I come in? 

Mrs. Foster. Come. 

(Enter Miss Colton.) 



A Friend of the People 



73 



Miss Colton. I forgot my book. (She goes to 
sofa and gets it.) 

Mrs. Foster (who is still having her hair ar- 
ranged). Going to read? 

Miss Colton. Yes; I haven't anything else to 
do. . 

Mrs. Foster. Aren't you going to the meeting? 
Miss Colton. No. I'm afraid if I do I might 
miss the big pow-wow. 
Mrs. Foster. Oh ! 

Miss Colton. Is that what you are fixing up 
for? 

Mrs. Foster. Yes. 

Miss Colton. When are you going to deliver 
my pre-nuptial sermon? 

Mrs Foster. Now don't be impatient, dear. 
There's plenty of time for that. Get my bracelet, 
Lucy. 

(Miss Colton puts an arm around Mrs. Foster 
coaxingly.) 

Miss Colton. Is it to be very solemn ? 
Mrs. Foster. Am I ever very solemn? 
Miss Colton. Sometimes you are. 
Mrs. Foster. How stupid of me ! 
Miss Colton. When you came home this after- 
noon and began questioning me about my engage- 
ment you were very, very solemn. 

Mrs. Foster. Love is a very solemn thing to 
talk about. 

Miss Colton. And you haven't looked at all 
cheerful since. 

(Lucy returns from bedroom with bracelet.) 
Mrs. Foster. I've had a slight headache, dear. 
I had to take a powder for it. So (looking at the 



74 A Friend of the People 

clock) I don't wish to do any more talking than I 
have to at present. 

Miss Colton. Oh, I'm sorry. 

Mrs. Foster. I'll be better soon. (Miss Colton 
goes to door.) Lucy tells me you have been mak- 
ing a politician of her. 

Miss Colton (laughing). I'm going to make a 
Progressive out of her. She has promised to vote 
for Mr. Hopkins for United States Senator. 
Haven't you, Lucy? 

Lucy. Yes, Miss Rosalie. 

(Exit Miss Colton.) 

Mrs. Foster. You'll see the Governor tonight, 
Lucy. 

Lucy. The Governor? 

Mrs. Foster (looks at clock). Yes, I expect him 
shortly. 

(Lucy draws portiere over bedroom door.) 

Mrs. Foster. By the way, Lucy. Do you think 
they are very much in love — Rosalie and the Gov- 
ernor ? 

Lucy (laughs). I suppose so, Mrs. Foster. 

Mrs. Foster. You only suppose? 

Lucy. I never knew they were going to be mar- 
ried till I heard you talking to her this afternoon 
about the engagement. 

Mrs. Foster. I'm afraid you're not very ob- 
serving, Lucy. 

Lucy. He never came to see her. It was always 
to see — (a pause.) 

Mrs. Foster (smiles). Me. You did observe 
that. (A knock is heard.) There he is now. (Mrs. 
Foster quickly takes up position reclining among 
the pillows on the sofa.) Go to the door, Lucy. 



A Friend of the People 75 

(Lucy opens the door, admits Governor Hopkins, 
and goes out.) 

Hopkins (burning with anxiety his eyes are 
bulging with expectancy). You are alone? 

Mrs. Foster. Quite aloae. 

Hopkins (going to her side). Well — what news? 

Mrs. Foster. The crisis is passed. 

Hopkins. You have the letters? 

Mrs. Foster (smiles and nods). I have them. 

Hopkins. Edith, my darling! (Seizes her in 
his arms and kisses her passionately.) Oh, what a 
load you have taken off my mind! How can I 
ever — where are they? Let me see them. 

Mrs. Foster. What an unromantic hurry you 
are in! My dear Charles, the letters are perfectly 
safe. Come, sit down and talk to me. Just think ! 
We have not been alone for weeks. And you have 
so much to say to me. Let us talk over our affairs. 
Tell me what these miserable, vulgar gossips have 
been saying. 

Hopkins. Yes, yes, Edith, I'll tell you all, but 
the letters, I can't sit down till I see them. 

Mrs. Foster. You ought to take something for 
your nerves. 

Hopkins (laughing). I'll take the letters. 
They'll soothe me like bromide. 

Mrs. Foster. Oh, very well. 

(She rises, goes toward bedroom, parts the por- 
tiere, and as she does so he approaches her and puts 
his arms around her. She turns her face to him 
and he kisses her.) 

Mrs. Foster. Aren't you afraid your conscience 
will sting you? 

Hopkins. You cannot imagine, Edith, how full 
of joy I am. This afternoon I felt that the irre- 



76 A Friend of the People 

trievable had happened. I came to you tonight full 
of the pessimism of despair, almost certain that you 
had failed. I was utterly hopeless. And now — 
well, now I am perfectly happy. The grinding 
anxiety is over. 

Mrs. Foster. Fm glad to know your spirits have 
ceased to droop. After tonight. I suppose, — after 
tonight, you will be able to look the dear people 
straight in the eye for the first time. (He starts.) 
Is it not so? 

Hopkins. Now why do you say that? Just to 
taunt me? 

Mrs. Foster. Oh, no, Charles. You misunder- 
stand. 

Hopkins. Then what do you mean? 

Mrs. Foster. I mean that tonight you are to 
tell me all, and that then . . . we part. 

Hopkins. Oh. I thought you were alluding to 
the letters. 

Mrs. Foster. Oh, no. I was only thinking that 
with the letters off your mind and me off your 
conscience, you will feel like a liberated soul 

Hopkins. Don't mock me, Edith. 

Mrs. Foster. Fm not mocking you. How sen- 
sitive you are ! 

Hopkins. Have you read the letters? 

Mrs. Foster. I never read other people's letters. 
I know nothing about them except what Xed Sawyer 
told me. I know it's on account of Trask that you 
were so much alarmed. 

Hopkins. I suppose you were shocked. 

Mrs. Foster. Xo. Only astonished. 

Hopkins. Well. Fll explain the whole matter 
to you. 

Mrs. Foster. I was sure vou would. 



A Friend of the People 

Hopkins. There wasn't anything wrong, but of 
course it would be hard to make the public under- 
stand how I came to be in correspondence with 
Trask. 

Mrs. Foster. Yes, it certainly would. 

Hopkins. You see, I've whipped Trask into 
line, and he realizes now that the old system was 
bad. He is as zealous for reform as the next man. 
And I'll have his support for the Senate. 

Mrs. Foster. Ah. You are a master of the art 
of political strategy. You have snatched a brand 
from the burning, and you will use it to light you 
on your way. That's what I call genius. 

Hopkins. Come, Edith, don't be jesting. Let 
me have the letters. Don't keep me in suspense. 

Mrs. Foster. Oh, to be sure; I was forgetting 
about them. (Takes a step toward bedroom. Sud- 
denly turns.) How forgetful! 

Hopkins. What's happened? 

Mrs. Foster. It has just occurred to me that the 
top drawer of the bureau is locked — and Lucy has 
the key. 

Hopkins. Where is she? 

Mrs. Foster. She'll be back presently. 

Hopkins. Can't you ring for her? 

Mrs. Foster. I sent her on an errand. Now 
don't be so impatient. She'll be back in a few 
moments. 

Hopkins. I hope she gets back before the meet- 
ing starts. 

Mrs. Foster. Don't worry about that. All your 
worries will soon be over. . . . Charles, this 
may be our last — 

Hopkins. Don't say that, Edith. I don't want 
to think that. . . . Oh, you look so beautiful 



78 A Friend of the People 

tonight ! (He takes her in his arms and kisses her.) 
How can I give you up! You were the one thing 
in this world that I desired — that I hoped some day 
to call my own. 

Mrs. Foster. And you used to say you would 
wait if it took till doomsday. 

Hopkins. Yes, yes, and I meant it too. Oh, if I 
had not — 

Mrs. Foster. Become the people's friend — and 
if Cyrus wasn't in such good health — but as I've 
told you that's all nonsense — self-delusion. There 
is something you wish to say to me tonight ? 

Hopkins. Something to say to you? About 
what? 

Mrs. Foster. About . . . well about our- 
selves. You said yesterday there was a lot you had 
to tell me. 

Hopkins. Did I? (Looks at his watch.) I 
wish that girl would come. 

Mrs. Foster. And this afternoon you made a 
remark that has since made me think you had some- 
thing very important to say. 

Hopkins. What was that? 

Mrs Foster. That some day I might despise 
you. 

Hopkins. Did I say that? 

Mrs Foster. Yes. So absurd! But of course 
, . . you have something to say. You had it on 
your mind today. 

Hopkins. But, Edith, my mind has been in such 
a whirl. 

Mrs. Foster. Yes, I know. 

Hopkins. Just think of it ! ! I have been at the 
mercy of a blackmailer ! 

Mrs. Foster. Yes. I can appreciate your state 



A Friend of the People 



79 



of mind. And I can excuse you, too, for not being 
as frank with me as you might have been (Hopkins 
becomes apprehensive.) Ah, Charles, I know just 
how you have been feeling^ ... You have 
something to say to me, haven't you? 

Hopkins. Y-es— I have. 

Mrs. Foster. Something about— Rosalie. 

Hopkins (struggling to maintain his composure). 
She has told you! I asked her to let me tell you 

^Mrs. Foster. Did you? Well she didn't tell me 
till I asked her. 

Hopkins. Edith, I intended to tell you tonight. 

Mrs. Foster. You did? 

Hopkins. Honestly I did, Edith. Rosalie will 
tell you that I promised to do so before the end oi 
the week. Don't be angry with me, Edith. 

Mrs. Foster. Angry with you! I'm not angry. 
I'm glad to know you are not going to repent your 
past folly in sack-cloth and ashes. But now, tell 
me, wasn't it when you began to admire Rosalie that 
you realized how wrong it was to appear beiore me 
people in a false light? 

Hopkins. No, Edith, that wasn't it. I've told 
you the truth. There has been a lot of gossip. 

Mrs Foster. And that frightened you! How 
weak you are! Everybody who amounts to any- 
thing occasions gossip, which is only another name 
for evil-speaking. 

Hopkins (confused). Edith, I know I haven t 
played a manly part. I'm ^^ m T ed u °\^l sd t\^ A 
terly ashamed of my weakness. I should have told 
you long ago. But I haven't lied to you. It s just 
as I told you. There has been gossip. (Paces up 
and down.) It seems as if everything is conspiring 
against me. Even in politics appearances are 



80 A Friend of the People 

enough to condemn me. I've just begun to realize 
what retribution means. 

Mrs. Foster. So far as I am concerned, Charles, 
don't reproach yourself. Only I feel that if you 
were really chivalrous you'd have allowed me to 
break the spell. 

Hopkins. I know I ought to have told you, 
Edith. It was cowardly not to have done so. 

Mrs. Foster. Oh, I don't mean that you should 
have told me. All I wanted was a warning. 
(Laughs.) You see it's a terrible blow to a woman's 
ego not to be permitted to avail herself of her lines 
of retreat. When the woman glides out gracefully 
no harm is done, but when the man abruptly throws 
up the game it's a tragedy. You see I am more 
philosophical than sentimental. 

Hopkins. And you forgive me? 

Mrs. Foster. My dear Charles, you are taking 
it all too seriously, and from the wrong viewpoint. 
A woman is always responsible for her own failures. 
You have done nothing to reproach yourself for. 
You have merely chastened my ego. 

Hopkins. Edith, you are sure you don't hate 
me? 

Mrs. Foster. Hate you? How absurd! 

Hopkins. No, it's not absurd. I ought to be 
overwhelmed with remorse. 

Mrs. Foster. Believe me, Charles, our past floats 
in a mist of obscurity. I know there are some 
women who are given to grieving over a romance 
that is dead, but it is not my nature to do so. Why 
should I expect to be always irresistible? Why 
should I expect you to refuse the life that has come 
to you with its joys, its seductions and its honorable 
duties! Now don't worry about me. I know that 



A Friend of the People 81 

one might as well try to gather the breath of the 
budding rose as to direct the course of love. 

Hopkins. Then you really do forgive me— you 
treasure up no— 

Mrs. Foster. I hope you do not think I m re- 
vengeful. 

Hopkins. Oh, no, I— 

Mrs. Foster. After tonight I intend to turn to 
religion. 

Hopkins. To religion? 

Mrs. Foster (with deep sincerity). Yes, after 
tonight I've come to the conclusion that all earthly 
iov is mixed with anguish and discontent. I am 
told God never rejects those who force their way 
to him— that there are no wounus which religion 
cannot heal. We shall part on excellent terms, I 

hope. 

(A knock is heard at the door.) 

Hopkins (startled). Somebody at the door! 

Mrs. Foster. I suppose it's Lucy. 

Hopkins. Get the key from her. 

Miss Colton. May I come in? 

Hopkins (in a panic). Rosalie! 

Mrs. Foster. Hush! (To Rosalie.) In a 
moment, dear. 

Hopkins (looking for a place to escape). What 
shall I do? . 

Mrs. Foster (pointing to the wtndows). On 
the balcony, quick ! (As he goes.) HI get rid of 
her as soon as possible. 

(When Hopkins goes out it is no longer moon- 
light The balcony is in darkness. Mrs. Foster 
closes the windows and draws the portiere. Then 
she returns to center of room.) 
Mrs. Foster. Come. 



82 A Friend of the People 

(Miss Colton enters.) 

Miss Colton. Oh, I thought perhaps you had 
gone to bed. 

Mrs. Foster. It's too early for bed. Besides 
the town band hasn't begun to play the serenade yet. 

Miss Colton. What about the sermon? 

Mrs. Foster. You're just in time for that. 

Miss Colton. So the news was a suprise to you ! 
(She sits on the sofa y Mrs. Foster on a chair.) 

Mrs. Foster. Yes, you sly rogue. You kept 
your secret well. 

Miss Colton. But there was nothing to tell, 
except — well, I suppose we are sort of engaged. 
But it wasn't settled. Both of us might change our 
minds. 

Mrs. Foster. Oh, that's it. 

Miss Colton. Yes, I think that's how it is. Oh, 
he was very much in earnest, but it was all kind 
of prospective. 

Mrs. Foster. Then you are not very much in 
love, are you? 

Miss Colton (meditates and then laughs girl- 
ishly). How am I to know when it's the first time. 

Mrs. Foster. One doesn't have to be told that. 
Rosalie, you're not in love at all. 

Miss Colton flier eyes opened widej. How do 
you know? 

Mrs. Foster. When a young girl is in love the 
depth of it is not a matter of guesswork. Some- 
times we confound love with admiration. You ad- 
mire Governor Hopkins, don't you! 

Miss Colton (clasping her hands ecstatically). 
Oh ! yes, I do admire him ! 



A Friend of the People 83 

Mrs. Foster (smiling). Not a bit of doubt of 
that, I see. 

Miss Colton (rapturously). I think he's the 
ideal Governor. 

Mrs. Foster. I see. 

Miss Colton. He's so good! And he's going 
to do big things for the people. He has done big 
things for the people. That's why I — why I admire 
him. 

Mrs. Foster. I see. You're a great little 
patriot, Rosalie dear — an intense patriot. Patriot- 
ism like yours seems to justify woman suffrage. 

Miss Colton. And you admire Governor Hop- 
kins too, don't you Aunt Edith? 

Mrs. Foster (ignoring the question). I didn't 
know you took politics so seriously. 

Miss Colton. Didn't you know I went to all 
the campaign meetings? 

Mrs. Foster. Yes, I knew that. i\nd so 
Charles — Governor Hopkins is your ideal statesman. 

Miss Colton. I think he's everybody's. He's 
yours, isn't he? You used to tell me what a great 
man he was. And Uncle Cyrus thinks the world 
of him too. And he's so glad that we are — well, I 
suppose you would call it engaged ! 

Mrs. Foster. Yes, he is glad. 

Miss Colton. And aren't you? Aunt Edith! 
Don't you wish me to marry him? 

Mrs. Foster. I wish that before marrying him 
you should know more about him, Rosalie. And 
I'm going to have you know more about him. 

Miss Colton (rising and putting an arm around 
Mrs. Foster). You have something to tell me. 

Mrs. Foster. There's much I want you to know. 

Miss Colton (eagerly). Oh, tell me, Aunt 



84 A Friend of the People 

Edith. What is it? Have I done wrong? Is 
there — 

Mrs. Foster. Don't excite yourself, dear. 

Miss Colton. You have given me such a shock ! 

Mrs. Foster (rises). I don't mean to shock you, 
but I may shatter an illusion. You are a sensible 
girl, but the most sensible of girls are deceived at 
times. 

Miss Colton. What do you mean? 

Mrs. Foster. Perhaps, my dear, if you knew 
Governor Hopkins better you wouldn't admire him 
so much. I fancy, Rosalie, that you've been car- 
ried away by your political enthusiasm. 

Miss Colton (her voice faltering; she is dis- 
mayed but affects composure). What a strange 
idea! 

Mrs. Foster. He's not a romance to you — only 
a bronze figure. Would it make you sad to find 
out that it wasn't bronze at all? (Miss Colton 
starts.) Well I'm sure it wouldn't break your 
heart. 

Miss Colton. Oh, I don't — tell me, what do you 
mean? Are you in earnest? 

Mrs. Foster. Now, Rosalie, I want you to step 
in there (pointing to the bedroom) and remain per- 
fectly quiet for a few minutes. 

Miss Colton. What are you going to do, Aunt 
Edith? 

Mrs. Foster. There's nothing to be nervous 
about. I'm going to give you a little surprise — 
not a pleasant one, but it's for your good. (Miss 
Colton is transfixed.) Listen, Rosalie: Governor 
Hopkins is out there on the balcony waiting for you 
to leave this room. 



A Friend of the People 85 

Miss Colton (pop-eyed with amazement). 
Wha-at ? . . . Waiting — waiting for me to go ? 

Mrs. Foster. Yes, Rosalie. 

Miss Colton. Out there? 

Mrs. Foster. Yes, Rosalie, he's out there and 
he'll be in here presently. He won't go till you 
leave. 

Miss Colton (going to door at right). Then I'll 
go- 

Mrs. Foster. Don't be foolish. 

Miss Colton. But I don't wish to hide. 

Mrs. Foster. I don't ask you to. That's what 
he's doing. Come, I want you to wait till he goes. 
I have something to say to you. (Miss Colton 
zvalks like one hypnotised into the bedroom. Mrs. 
Foster leaves doors open, draws portiere and then 
goes to window and lets Governor Hopkins in.) 

Hopkins. Gone? 

Mrs. Foster. Yes. 

Hopkins. Damned close shave. 

Mrs. Foster. I couldn't get rid of. her any 
sooner. 

Hopkins. If the balcony wasn't so high I'd have 
jumped. 

Mrs. Foster. You'd have broken your neck. 

Hopkins. I'd rather do that tham let Rosalie 
know. 

Mrs. Foster. Then you do love her! 

Hopkins (ignoring the observation). Edith, 
please don't keep me in suspense any longer. 

Mrs. Foster. Would you have gone without the 
letters ? 

Hopkins. I was so excited I forgot about them. 



86 A Friend of the People 

Mrs. Foster (reclining on sofa). How lucky you 
are to get such a lovely girl for a wife! 

Hopkins. Yes. 

Mrs. Foster. A rich girl, too. 

Hopkins (looking at his watch). Great heavens, 
Edith ! Isn't that maid of yours ever coming back ? 

Mrs. Foster. Oh, don't be so impatient. 

Hopkins. But I've got to go. There's going 
to be a mass-meeting in front of the hotel in a little 
while. 

Mrs. Foster. She'll be here in a moment. (Re- 
clines on the sofa.) I told Rosalie to find her and 
send her in. 

Hopkins. Oh. 

Mrs. Foster. Just before you came in tonight 
I was thinking of our trip to the mountains. We 
arrived at the old inn just a year ago today. 

Hopkins. Was it a year ago? 

Mrs. Foster. Yes. ... I shall never for- 
get that moonlight night. ... It was a year 
ago tonight. 

Hopkins. A year ago! (He rises.) 

Mrs. Foster. When Cyrus and Rosalie thought 
we were lost in the woods. 

Hopkins (bending over her and kissing her). 
You are ravishingly beautiful tonight. (He starts 
as though he heard a sound.) 

Mrs. Foster. The window is open, and the cur- 
tains are blowing. Let's talk about Rosalie. 

Hopkins. About Rosalie? 

Mrs. Foster. I was just thinking — what an 
idealist she is. 

Hopkins. Yes. 

Mrs. Foster. Wouldn't she be shocked if she 
knew? 



A Friend of the People 87 

Hopkins. If she knew? 

Mrs. Foster. Yes, about — Trask. 

Hopkins. Oh. Yes, I suppose she would. 

Mrs. Foster. Especially if she knew that as a 
member of the League of Justice she had been 
working in his interest. 

Hopkins (startled). I don't understand what 
you mean. 

Mrs. Foster. Oh, I forgot. I didn't mention, 
did I, that Sawyer told me the letters were about 
Judge Lawrence? 

Hopkins. He told you — ? 

Mrs. Foster. That it was Trask who wanted 
to get rid of Lawrence, and that he really inspired 
the recall movement. 

Hopkins. Well that isn't exactly true. 

Mrs. Foster. No? 

Hopkins. No. 

Mrs. Foster. How much of it is true? 

Hopkins. Now, Edith, I haven't time to go into 
that whole matter with you tonight. (Looks at his 
watch again.) I wish you'd ring for that girl, and 
get me the letters. 

Mrs. Foster. But my curiosity is so keen. I'd 
like to hear the whole story. 

Hopkins. When it blows over I'll tell you all 
about it. 

Mrs. Foster (thinking aloud). When it blows 
over! 

Hopkins (impatiently). Yes. 

Mrs. Foster. It shocked me to hear Sawyer 
make such a terrible accusation against you! And 
now you admit you are friendly with Trask. 

Hopkins. Well, there's nothing wrong about 



88 A Friend of the People 

that. (Smiling.) You know it's an old saying that 
politics makes strange bedfellows. (He moves 
about trying to possess his soul in patience.) 

Mrs. Foster. Yes, I've heard that. And it's 
true, isn't it ? But you . . . and Trask . . . 
and Judge Lawrence — ugh ! (She shudders.) 

Hopkins. Now, Edith, don't be magnifying 
something you don't know anything about. Judge 
Lawrence ought to have been recalled. 

Mrs. Foster. And that's just exactly what Trask 
thought, isn't it? 

Hopkins. I don't know just what he thought. 
But look here, Edith, I can't wait any longer. 
What's all this delay about anyway? 

Mrs. Foster (sitting up). Oh, there's one thing 
I forgot. 

Hopkins. What's that? 

Mrs. Foster. The commissioa. 

Hopkins. The commission? 

Mrs. Foster. Yes, Sawyer's. Let me see it. 

Hopkin. I didn't bring any commission. 

Mrs. Foster. Didn't Mr. Dolan tell you? 

Hopkins (with an air of great dignity). Do you 
really think I ought to appoint to the bench a man 
who is nothing more than a contemptible thief and 
blackmailer ? 

Mrs. Foster. Isn't that the bargaia? 

Hopkins. The bargain? 

Mrs. Foster. Yes. 

Hopkins (gradually awakening). Well, I'll 
think it over. But let me have the letters. 

Mrs. Foster. No, Charles, not — 

Hopkins. Wha-at? 

Mrs. Foster. — unless I get the commission. 



A Friend of the People 89 

Hopkins. You don't mean that! 

Mrs. Foster. That's exactly what I mean. 

Hopkins. You'll give him back the letters? 

Mrs. Foster. It would be dishonest for me not 
to do so. 

Hopkins. Now, Edith, you're trying to frighten 
me. 

Mrs. Foster. I'm trying to hold you to your 
bargain — to have you deal honestly with Ned 
Sawyer. 

Hopkins. You won't give them to me? 

Mrs. Foster. No. 

Hopkins. Well by God, I'll take them. 

Mrs. Foster. You wouldn't do that, would you ? 

Hopkins. Now look here, Edith, you're not go- 
mg to be so damnably unreasonable, I hope. 

Mrs. Foster. I'm going to keep my word. 

Hopkins. Well I'm not going to leave myself 
in the power of that scoundrel. 

Mrs. Foster. They are to remain in my pos- 
session. 

Hopkins. They are stolen letters. They belong 
to the owners. 

Mrs. Foster. You'll take them? 

Hopkins. Self-preservatioa is the first law of 
nature. 

Mrs. Foster. You wouldn't dare do such a 
thing. 

Hopkins (his tone softened, his manner con- 
ciliatory). Edith, whatever the unkindness I may 
suffer at your hands I will not complain. But 
surely you wouldn't be so cruel. You wouldn't — 
(he attempts to caress her.) 

Mrs. Foster (rising quickly, avoiding him, and 



90 A Friend of the People 

laughing scornfully) . I think there has been enough 
said. Have I ever by word or deed given you 
the impression that I could sympathize with sordid 
treachery and the kind of meanness you have shown 
yourself capable of? 

Hopkins (dumfounded). What do you mean? 

Mrs. Foster. I mean that the man whom I in- 
spired with political ambition has proved false to 
his trust. I have done much that was wrong, and 
what I have done I deeply repent; all the more 
deeply now that I know how utterly unworthy 
you are. Oh! shame on you! 

Hopkins (in a towering rage). Where are 
those letters? 

Mrs. Foster (pointing to the bedroom). The 
letters are in there, the drawer is not locked. Take 
them if you dare. 

(He looks at her a moment, his face distorted with 
passion, then turns, goes to portiere, draws it aside 
and opens the doors. Miss Colton is standing in the 
room a few feet from the doorway. Hopkins is 
transfixed ivith amazement.) 

Hopkins. Rosalie! (He turns and looks at 
Mrs. Foster who calmly returns his gaze. For a 
moment he wilts, then braces himself and speaks in 
a calm voice.) What are you doing here ? 

Mrs. Foster. She has been waiting for you to 
go. 

(Miss Colton comes out and goes to Mrs. Foster 
who puts an arm around her. As she passes him 
Hopkins speaks.) 

Hopkins. Rosalie! — you — don't misjudge me, 
Rosalie. Oh, don't. (He pauses.) 

Mrs. Foster. Why not tell her everything. 

(He turns, goes into bedroom, opens top bureau 
drawer, takes out letters and hastily examines them. 
Meanwhile Miss Colton in great distress sinks upon 



A Friend of the People 



91 



the sofa and Mrs. Foster pets her. Hopkins comes 

out.) . 

Mrs. Foster. You have taken those letters with- 
out my permission. 

Hopkins. They were stolen. 
Mrs. Foster. Yes. 

Hopkins. They can serve none but an evil pur- 
pose. (He goes to Hreplace, takes a matchbox out 
of his pocket and takes out a match.) 

Mrs. Foster. Perhaps you wouldn't mind let- 
ting Rosalie read that interesting correspondence. 
Hopkins. Perhaps you will tell her all about it. 
Mrs. Foster. I should rather have her read the 
letters and then have her hear you explain how you 
came to conspire with Luke Trask for the recall 
of Judge Lawrence. 
Hopkins. It's a lie! 
Mrs. Foster. Read the letters to Rosalie. 
Miss Colton (sobbing). No, no, don't read 
them ! 

(He lights the match.) 

Mrs. Foster. You are going to burn them? 
Hopkins. Yes. 

Mrs. Foster. Don't do it. Give them to me! 
(He looks at her, an expression of hate in his face.) 
I beg of you for your own sake not to burn them. 

(He applies the match. Mrs. Foster sits down 
and puts an arm around Miss Colton zvhose 
eyes are dim with tears. As the letters are turning 
to ashes, the faint music of a serenade is heard. 
Hopkins hears, quickly gets his hat, turns a melan- 
choly glance on Miss Colton and goes out.) 

Mrs Foster I don't think we shall attend the 
meeting. (Miss Colton sobs.) What a lively air 
they are playing! 

(curtain) 




ACT IV 

The following forenoon. Living room of the 
Capitol Hotel. The furniture is old-fashioned. On 
the walls some crude landscapes in gilt frames. In 
the back wall, a broad doorway leading to a veranda 
through which a garden is seen. On each side of 
the door is a long window. In the right wall an 
open doorway. In the upper left corner a piano. 
In front an oblong table covered with magazines 
and newspapers. Seated at the table is Cyrus 
Foster. He has a handkerchief in his hand. He 
has been wiping his brow. Pendleton is standing 
in the doorway looking up and down the veranda. 

Pendleton. I wonder if he has gone motoring! 

Foster. Very likely. Nothing better than the 
fresh air for a man when he isn't feeling well— noth- 
ing better. I'm not feeling so well myself after my 
ride in a hot train. 

Pendleton. Too bad you weren't here for the 
serenade. 

Foster. Tell me about it. Lots of enthusiasm, 
I suppose. 

Pendleton. No man ever got a greater ovation. 

Foster. Sorry I missed it, but I had to go to the 
city. A big meeting, was it? 

Pendleton. The whole town was there. But 



94 A Friend of the People 

somehow, Mr. Foster, it struck me that the Governor 
wasn't himself. 

Foster. Not himself? Why not? 

Pendleton. It struck me he was tired. He 
lacked vim. As Dolan would say, he didn't have 
the punch. 

Foster. Hm! And you say he hasn't been to 
the office this morning? 

Pendleton. He telephoned that he wasn't feel- 
ing well. But it's strange — he isn't in his room. 
I've been all over the grounds and everywhere, and 
I can't find him. 

Foster. Then I guess he has gone motoring — 
with Rosalie, perhaps. 

Pendleton. I shouldn't wonder. 

Foster. If he has he isn't very sick. 

Pendleton. He's been working pretty hard 
lately. He looks worn out, but I hope he isn't, now 
that the senatorial fight is coming on. 

Foster (rising). I'll have to quit riding in rail- 
road trains. Got to have a cold bath and brisk rub 
now to brace up. 

Pendleton. You look fatigued. (As Foster 
shows signs of going.) Would you mind, Mr. Fos- 
ter, sitting down some day soon to talk over the 
senatorial campaign ? We've got to have your judg- 
ment and advice, you know. 

Foster (smiles). Hm — yes, I suppose so. 

Pendleton. You're the man to set the pace. 

Foster (preening himself). Not very much for 
me to learn in politics — what? 

Pendleton. No, I should say not. You don't 
think it too early to start the campaign, do you? 

Foster. You can never be too early. I'm a 
great believer in preparedness. 



A Friend of the People 95 

(Mrs. Foster enters at right.) 

Foster. Well, dearie, here I am. 

Mrs. Foster. You're back early. (She yields a 
cheek which he kisses.) 

Pendleton. How do you do, Mrs. Foster. 

Mrs. Foster. Good morning, Mr. Pendleton. 

Pendleton. We've just been talking of the 
senatorial campaign. 

Mrs. Foster (to her husband). Ah, is that so? 

Foster. I was saying I don't think it's too early 
to start the campaign. 

Mrs. Foster. Oh, indeed. Now I see that I 
have to take you out of the hands of these politicians. 
They have no mercy on you. They won't give you 
a moment's rest. (He beams.) 

Pendleton. Oh, don't say that, Mrs. Foster. 

Mrs. Foster. I will say that. (To Foster.) 
No more campaigning for you, for the present. 

Foster. Ha, ha. What do you think of that, 
Pendleton ? 

Pendleton. Mrs. Foster is joking. 

Mrs. Foster. Mrs. Foster is very much in 
earnest. 

Foster (to Pendleton). I'll bet she is. Ha, 
ha ! — out of the hands of the politicians ! That's a 
good one on Hopkins! (Putting an arm around 
her.) So you are going back on the Administra- 
tion! 

Mrs. Foster. We must not neglect your health. 
You've been taking a life-and-death interest in 
politics, and I can see it isn't doing you any good. 

Foster (agitate d). My health! What's the mat- 
ter with my health? Don't I look well? 

Mrs. Foster. You could look much better. 



96 A Friend of the People 

Foster (alarmed) . You think so. Much better ? 

Mrs. Foster. Well, a little better. 

Foster. I know — smoked too much last night 
and didn't get any sleep. 

Mrs. Foster (to Pendleton). Yes, I'm in earn- 
est. Mr. Foster must go away for awhile. 

Foster. What's that ? Go — where must I go ? 

Mrs. Foster (smiling). Rosalie and I have been 
making arrangements for a trip to — 

Foster. A trip? 

Mrs. Foster. To Nauheim. 

Foster. That's a health resort. 

Mrs. Foster. It's the ideal place for a rest. 

Foster. You talk as though I were sick — broken 
down. 

Mrs. Foster. Oh, no, my dear. You're not in 
ill health, but you will be if you continue to con- 
centrate all your attention on politics. Your habits 
have become very irregular, aad there is too much 
excitement in politics. Besides you know what I 
have been looking forward to. 

Foster. Do I? (She nods.) I'm blessed if I 
haven't forgotten. 

Mrs. Foster. Have you forgotten the trip to 
Rome? 

Foster. Trip to Rome? This is the first — 

Mrs. Foster. Now, now, don't pretend that 
your memory is failing. That's an awfully bad 
sign. Isn't it, Mr. Pendleton? 

Pendleton. Not always, Mrs. Foster. The 
youngest of us have lapses. 

Mrs. Foster. Well, dear, whether you've for- 
gotten or not we are going to Europe. 

Foster. We are — who? What? 



A Friend of the People 97 

Mrs. Foster. You and I — and Rosalie. 

Foster. And Rosalie! (Laughs.) Rosalie go- 
ing to Europe ? On her honeymoon trip, I suppose. 

Pendleton. What will the senatorial campaign 
be without you, Mr. Foster. 

Foster. That's what I'd like to know. And 
for that matter, without you, dearie. 

Mrs. Foster. Oh, now that Governor Hopkins 
is an experienced politician and so popular he is 
hardly in need of our assistance. 

Foster. Are you in earnest? Are you really 
thinking of going abroad? 

Mrs. Foster. Rosalie and I have begun packing 
our trunks. 

Foster. Phew! Well, it beats the world how 
women can accumulate whims. And you'd leave 
poor Hopkins to fight it out alone — and Rosalie, 
too. You must be joking! Now as a matter of 
fact you couldn't drag Rosalie away from the State. 

Mrs. Foster. Well, dear, we'll not talk about it 
any more at present. You were up late last night, 
and you must be tired. 

Foster. Yes, I am tired. Fm just going up to 
get into a cold bath. 

Mrs. Foster. That's a good idea. 

Foster. Well, Pendleton, drop in tomorrow and 
we'll talk the situation over. 

Pendleton. All right, sir. (To Mrs. Foster.) 
Have you seen the Governor thi* morning? 

(Foster goes in door on right.) 

Mrs. Foster. No, I have not. 

Pendleton. He hasn't been to the office today. 
He telephoned he was ill. 

Mrs. Foster. Oh, that's too bad. It's not a case 
for a doctor I hope. 



98 A Friend of the People 

Pendleton. Oh, no— it's not so bad as that. 
He's not in bed. He has gone somewhere. For all 
I know he may be at the office now. So I'll be go- 
ing back. (He starts to go.) Oh, are you really 
going to Europe? 

Mrs. Foster. Yes, we are going. 
Pendleton. What a terrible blow to the Gov- 
ernor! Have you told him? 
Mrs. Foster. No, not yet. 

(Enter Miss Colton at right. She is in a walking 
suit.) 

Pendleton. Ah, good morning. Have you 
seen the Governor? 

Miss Colton. No, not today. 

Mrs. Foster. The Governor is ill, Rosalie. 

Miss Colton. Very ill? 

Pendleton. Oh, nothing serious. So you are 
going to leave us ! 

Miss Colton. Yes. For a few months. 

Pendleton. Ah. Well I must be getting back 
to the office. I suppose I'll see you before you go. 

Miss Colton. Oh, yes. We'll be here for 
several days. 

(He bows and goes out.) 

Mrs. Foster. Where are you going? 

Miss Colton. Just for a walk. 

Mrs. Foster. Your uncle is back. I told him 
about the trip. 

Miss Colton. What did he say ? 

Mrs. Foster. He was surprised, of course, but — 
well we're going. Don't you feel well, dear? 

Miss Colton (smiles). I could feel better. 

Mrs. Foster. I understand. (Puts an arm 



A Friend of the People " 

around her.) You dear, sweet girl! The ocean 
voyage is just the thing for you. 

Miss Colton. I'm already longing for the 
ocean. 

Mrs. Foster. That's a good sign. I'm longing 
for it too— longing to go down into its depths,— to 
feel the boundlessness of it— to be tossed about on 
its rolling waves. 

Miss Colton. Oh, it must be inspiring! 
Mrs. Foster. It is, dear. 

Miss Colton (going to door). I'll be in soon. 
(She goes out at back. Mrs. Foster watches her 
as she enters the garden. Then goes to table, looks 
at magazines a moment, turns, goes toward piano. 
As she does so sees Hopkins on the veranda pass- 
ing window on the left, on his way to the doorway. 
He enters. He is extremely nervous. His face is 
Hushed. His hair is touseled. Apparently he has 
been drinking. On seeing Mrs. Foster he braces 
up.) 

Hopkins (in a tone of profound sadness). Edith! 
(She does not answer, but regards him calmly.) 
Won't you speak to me? 

Mrs. Foster (indifferently). I have nothing to 
say — nothing. 

Hopkins (his head bowed). Oh, listen to me, 
Edith— just a word. I did wrong last night. . . . 
It was terrible— yes, yes. (Mrs. Foster moves a 
step as though going.) Oh, Edith, won't you listen 
to me? I'm not asking for forgiveness. I know 
that's impossible. 

Mrs. Foster. Then why talk about it? 
Hopkins. Oh, I want to explain. I know you 
despise me, but— I wasn't in my right mind. I was 
mad. (She takes up a magazine.) Oh, wont you 



100 A Friend of the People 

listen to me? You will drive me — (she looks up). 
Yes, Edith, you — I beg of you to listen. You know 
what a terrible state I was in — how worried — how 
distressed — I had been drinking, Edith. I didn't 
intend to break my agreement. I'll appoint Sawyer. 
I'll— 

Mrs. Foster. Too late. 

Hopkins. Too late? 

Mrs. Foster. Yes. (She turns to go.) 

Hopkins. Oh, that can't be, Edith. You don't 
understand me. It's because you despise me. Some 
day you'll know all, but meanwhile I can at least 
keep my promise. I can appoint Sawyer. The 
letters are destroyed, but that doesn't matter. 
Everything will be done just as though they were 
still in existence. 

Mrs. Foster (smiling bitterly). No. It's too 
late. 

Hopkins. You mean — Rosalie? She — 

Mrs. Foster. No, I mean yourself. The in- 
juries done to Judge Lawrence and Ned Sawyer — 
and to yourself, are beyond reparation. (She goes 
out through door in right wall. Hopkins stands be- 
wildered. He cannot grasp her meaning. He 
sinks into a chair. Dolan enters at back.) 

Dolan. Morning, Governor. (Hopkins doesn't 
answer.) Are you ill? (He puts a hand on Hop- 
kins' shoulder.) 

Hopkins (shakes his head). Yes, I don't feel at 
all well, Larry. 

Dolan. What's the trouble? 

Hopkins (rising). I've had a bad night, Larry. 

Dolan. Have you had a doctor? 

Hopkins. No, — I don't need a doctor. . . . 
Has Sawyer been to the office? 



A Friend of the People 101 

Dolan. No, I haven't seen him. 

Hopkins. He didn't 'phone? 

Dolan. No. But, what do you think, Luke 
Trask has been 'phoning. 

Hopkins. Trask? What does he want? 

Dolan. I don't know. Long distance has been 
calling up all morning. Wants you to call up the 
city. 

Hopkins Hm ! I wonder what Trask wants ! 

Dolan. I wonder, too. That's the first time 
he ever called up the office. Don't you think you 
ought to be in bed. 

Hopkins. Sit down, Larry. (They sit facing 
each other at table.) I'm not myself, Larry. (A 
pause.) I ought to be in bed, but I'm too nervous 
to stay there. (A pause.) 

Dolan. What appears to be the matter? 

Hopkins. Oh, I feel all shot to pieces. . . . 
I'll be all right— after a while. (Presses his temples 
with his hands.) 

Dolan. Why not call a doctor ? 

Hopkins. No. No doctor. I ought to take a 
dose of bromide, I suppose, but I've been trying to 
brace up on brandy, and I'm not used to it. 

Dolan. Brandy? You drinking brandy! I 
thought you never drank. 

Hopkins. I needed a stimulant. 

Dolan. But you oughtn't to drink brandy. 

Hopkins. Larry, listen; I'm going to tell you 
something. (A pause.) 

Dolan. What is it, Governor? 

Hopkins. P have to get away. I'm going away 
for a week or two. 

Dolan. Before the extra session? 



102 A Friend of the People 

Hopkins. Yes. I must have a rest. 

Dolan. Great Scott! How can you get away 
now? 

Hopkins. I'm not going far, Larry — up to my 
brother's ranch — into the mountains. Oh, how I 
long to fill my lungs with mountain air ! That's 
what I need, Larry, — a breath of pure air — of pure 
air! 

Dolan. Too damned bad that you called the 
extra session so early! 

Hopkins (pressing his temples). Yes, that's un- 
fortunate, but I must go. (Flaring up for a 
moment.) By God, I must go — up there among 
the pines. I can sleep there. I can find forget- 
fulness, calm — rest. There's where I spent my boy- 
hood, Larry — high up in winding valleys, with 
towering pines all around. What hours! What 
memories ! Yes, I must go. 

Dolan (rising). Oh, very well, if you must, you 
must! 

Hopkins (sitting, half sinking into the chair). 
Larry, don't tell anybody where I've gone. Do you 
hear? 

Dolan. Nobody? 

Hopkins. Nobody. Just tell them I'm sick from 
overwork and that my physician ordered me away 
peremptorily. 

Dolan. Does nobody know you're going? 

Hopkins. You're the only person I've told. 

Dolan. What about . . . you haven't told 
anybody ? 

Hopkins. I haven't told a soul. 

Dolan. What about — the Fosters? (A pause.) 

Hopkins. No. I haven't told them. (He bozvs 
his head on his arms on the table.) 



A Friend of the People 103 

Dolan (hesitating). Haven't you — haven't you 
told Miss Colton? 

(Hopkins as if stricken, bows his head on his 
chest, and there's a long pause while Dolan stands 
dum founded.) 

Dolan. Governor ! (Puts his hand on Hopkins' 
shoulder.) What's the matter? 

Hopkins (rousing himself. Shakes his head in 
the negative). I've told nobody . . . not even 
Rosalie. (Rises more agitated than ever and paces 
up and dozvn.) Larry, I'd give twenty years of my 
life if I could turn the clock back not quite that 
many hours. 

Dolan. Come, Governor, don't be so downcast. 
The worst of our troubles, hm ? are those that never 
happen. 

(Miss Colton is seen through doorway coming to- 
ward hotel. Dolan hears her footsteps on the 
veranda. He looks around.) 

Dolan. There's Miss Colton now. 
(Hopkins rises, is on the point of going to her. 
She doesn't look in. She turns to right.) 

Hopkins (just as Miss Colton vanishes before 
reaching the window) . Rosalie ! 

(Miss Colton is seen passing the window on the 
right. Her attention is attracted by something on 
the second floor of the hotel. She looks up and 
waves her hand and smiles, walks along and dis- 
appears. All the while Dolan and Hopkins are 
watching.) 

Hopkins (sinking back in chair). Gone! Yes, 
she's gone! — forever! (He wipes away a tear.) 

Dolan. Governor, what has happened? I don't 
want to pry into your private affairs, but damn it — 
perhaps I might be able to do something for you. 



104 A Friend of the People 

Hopkins. Yes, I understand, Larry. You're a 
good fellow. But there's nothing to be done — 
nothing. . . . It's all over. (Pulling himself 
together.) I'll forget all about it ... in the 
mountains. 

Dolan (cheerfully). That the way to feel about 
it! 

Hopkins. If Sawyer comes in today tell him — 
say that I — tell him that I was speaking about him — 
about his appointment — and that I'll see him as soon 
as I return. 

Dolan. When are you going? 

Hopkins (looking at his watch). As soon as I 
pack my grip. Now, you must get right back to the 
office. (Rising.) But come I must have another 
drink. Let's go to the bar. 

Dolan. I'd advise you not to drink any more, 
hm? Better take the bromide. 

Hopkins. Oh, a few more won't hurt me. 

(As they go out at back, Mrs. Foster comes in at 
right and sees them. They walk along veranda 
passing window on left. She watches them. Miss 
Colton enters at right.) 

Miss Colton. Well, it's all right. Uncle is 
satisfied. 

Mrs. Foster. Good! 

Miss Colton (with some animation). Now I'm 
in a hurry to be off. 

Mrs. Foster. We ought to be able to get away 
by the end of the week. 

Miss Colton. Oh, I hope so! 

Mrs. Foster. That is, if everything comes out 
right. . . . Dunstan ought to be back by this 
time. 

Miss Colton. So soon? 



A Friend of the People 105 

Mrs. Foster. It was very early when he started. 
He has had plenty of time. . . . What a storm 
is brewing for — 

Miss Colton. Oh, Aunt Edith, I hate to think 
of it ! I wish I could go away now ! 

Mrs. Foster. I too am becoming nervous. 
I wish Dunstan were here. . . . Dunstan is 
very much of a man. Don't you think so? 

Miss Colton. Yes, he is. 

Mrs. Foster. A very fine character — very sin- 
cere. 

Miss Colton. Yes. 

Mrs. Foster. I think he is very fond of you. 

Miss Colton (shozving a slight touch of anima- 
tion). I think he used to be fond of me. 

Mrs. Foster. Why, Rosalie, he's head over heels 
in love with you at this minute. 

(Pendleton enters at back.) 

Pendleton (somezvhat excited. To Mrs. Fos- 
ter). He isn't at the office. Have you seen him? 

Mrs. Foster. He just went out with Mr. Dolan. 

Pendleton. Ah, then they've gone to the of- 
fice. I'm glad to know he's all right. (To Miss 
Colton.) We shall miss you, I'm sure. 

Mrs. Foster. Mr. Pendleton thinks we ought to 
stay for the senatorial campaign. 

Pendleton (to Miss Colton). You will miss a 
lot of excitement. We shall be in the midst of the 
campaign very soon. You might say it was started 
last night. 

Miss Colton. Last night? 

Pendleton. Yes, the big jollification. That was 
virtually the first gun. 

Mrs. Foster. I should think it was rather early 
to start the campaign. 



106 A Friend of the People 

Pendleton. The Governor is in the hands of his 
friends, you know, and they feel it's important to 
keep moving; especially in this State where the 
forces of corruption are always alert. See what 
they're trying to do now in this Lawrence matter. 

Mrs. Foster. Yes, they appear to be after him. 

Pendleton. The System is always busy. The 
Interests never sleep. They would move heaven 
and earth to keep Governor Hopkins out of the 
Senate. And we may depend on it they are even 
now anticipating the trend of events. You will see 
the opposition press getting busier every day. 

(Enter Fred Dunstan at back in a hurry.) 

Mrs. Foster. Ah. You have returned ! 

Dunstan (smiling. Shakes hands with Mrs. 
Foster and nods to Miss Colton and Pendleton.) 
How is everybody ? 

Mrs. Foster. You made a quick trip. 

Dunstan. Tve been back half an hour, chasing 
around everywhere looking for the Governor. Is 
he here? 

(Miss Colton goes to piano and looks at sheet 
music.) 

Mrs. Foster. He has been here. Mr. Pendleton 
thinks he has gone to the office. 

Dunstan. I've just been over there. Saw 
Dolan just now on his way there, and he says the 
Governor hasn't been to the office and will not be 
there today. (Looks significantly at Mrs. Foster.) 

Pendleton. The Governor isn't feeling well. 

Dunstan. So Dolan says. (Looks at his 
watch.) Why it's almost twelve o'clock. I must 
get hold of him. 

Pendleton. May I ask why you wish to see the 
Governor? Perhaps I can be of some assistance. 



A Friend of the People 107 

Dunstan. No, you can't be of the slightest as- 
sistance. I've got to see the Governor personally. 

Mrs. Foster (smiling at Dunstan). I suppose 
your paper has some important news. 

Dunstan. It's off the press by this time. The 
extras ought to be here before long — that's why I'm 
in such a hurry to get an interview with him — to 
see what he has to say. 

Pendleton (consumed with curiosity). Ah, — 
you have some news — political news? 

Dunstan. Yes, its political news — very inter- 
esting political news. You'll be reading it in a lit- 
tle while. The papers will be in on the next train. 

Mrs. Foster. Mr. Pendleton, you know, is go- 
to manage the Governor's senatorial campaign. He 
was talking about it just as you came in. 

Dunstan. Oh, is that so? 

Pendleton (to Mrs. Foster). I fancy the Gov- 
ernor will not get much help from the Post. 

Dunstan. That's a remarkably shrewd con- 
jecture for you, Mr. Pendleton. 

Pendleton (still addressing Mrs. Foster). But 
fortunately the reactionary press doesn't wield a 
great deal of influence these days. 

Dunstan. That's a bitter blow from you, Pen- 
dleton — a very bitter blow. 

Pendleton. The Post tried hard to beat Gov- 
ernor Hopkins in the gubernatorial campaign, and 
it tried hard to beat the Constitutional amendments. 
Perhaps it will wake up after a while and see that 
there is evolution in the affairs of man as well as in 
nature. This is the day of uplift, Mr. Dunstan — 
the man above property — the soul above the pocket 
and all that sort of thing. 

Dunstan. Yes — especially all that sort of thing ; 



108 A Friend of the People 

that's great stuff — that Progressive patter. You've 
got a fine assortment of catch-phrases. 

Pendleton. Oh, of course — catch-phrases — 
patter — you reactionaries are impossible — aren't 
they, Mrs. Foster? 

Mrs. Foster. I believe they are. 

Dunstan. Yes, Pendleton, the reactionaries are 
impossible and I don't believe they'll support Gov- 
ernor Hopkins for the Senate. But I'm not sure 
the Progressives will support him either. 

Pendleton. No, we'll see about that, won't we, 
Miss Colton? (Miss Colton turns around on the 
piano stool.) Mr. Dunstan says he's not sure the 
Progressives will support the Governor for the 
Senate. 

Miss Colton. Does he say that? 

Pendleton. A case of the wish being father to 
the thought. 

Mrs. Foster (to Pendleton). Rosalie is kind of 
losing interest in politics — now that she's going 
abroad. 

Pendleton. But I know what her thoughts are 
about reactionaries. 

Miss Colton (smiles feebly). My thoughts are 
on the ocean today. 

Dunstan. There you are, Pendleton. (Going 
toward Miss Colton.) In other words your thoughts 
are far away from politics and politicians. 

Miss Colton. Yes. I'm thinking of my trip. 
We are going abroad. 

Dunstan. Ah. 

Mrs. Foster. Mr. Foster needs a rest. But we 
shall not be gone more than a few months. 

Dunstan (much interested). Only a few 
months ? (A pause.) Come to think of it my vaca- 



A Friend of the People 109 

tion is overdue. I could stand a few months ia 
Europe very nicely. 

Mrs. Foster. Then come with us. We shall be 
glad to have you. Sha'n't we, Rosalie? 

Miss Colton (blushing as Dunstan looks at her 
expectantly). Yes. 

Dunstan. Thank you. By jove, I'll go. The 
paper will be able to spare me after this scoop. 
(A pause.) Guess I'll send a card up to the Gov- 
ernor's rooms. 

Pendleton (who has been listening with mixed 
emotions). You'll not find him there. 

Dunstan. Nothing like trying, Pendy. He 
may have gone round the other way. (He goes out 
at right.) 

Pendleton. What's this scoop he's talking 
about ? 

Mrs. Foster. Does he alarm you? 

Pendleton. Oh, I don't take him very seriously. 
(Turning to Miss Colton.) I'm more worried 
about you. I know the Governor doesn't want you 
to be active in the affairs of the League of Justice, 
but surely you're not going to desert us altogether. 

Miss Colton. I'm going away. 

Pendleton. Yes, I know, but you're coming 
back. 

Miss Colton (sighing). I'm beginning to feel 
that I have no instinct for politics. I don't be- 
lieve many women have. 

Pendleton. Good gracious, Miss Colton ! How 
can you say that? We are indebted to such women 
as you and Mrs. Foster for much that has been 
done for the redemption of this State. 

Mrs. Foster. You give us too much credit. 

(Enter Sawyer. He bozvs to Mrs. Foster. Pen- 



110 A Friend of the People 

dleton looks at him in astonishment and appears 
embarrassed.) 

Sawyer (to Mrs. Foster). Waiting? 

Mrs. Foster. Yes; are you getting anxious? 

Sawyer. Somewhat. 

Pendleton. I'll be getting back to the office. 
Good-bye. (Mrs. Foster and Miss Colton nod to 
him and he goes out at back.) 

Mrs. Foster. This is Mr. Sawyer, Rosalie. 

Miss Colton. How do you do. (Sawyer bozvs.) 

Sawyer (to Mrs. Foster). That fellow that just 
went out — he's the Governor's handy man. 

Mrs. Foster. Do you know him? 

Sawyer. I know him by sight. Used to come to 
Trask's office nearly every day. He handled the re- 
call movement from both ends. 

Miss Colton (amazed). You mean Mr. Pendle- 
ton? 

Sawyer. Yes, I think that's his name. I heard 
that Trask put him in the Governor's office. 

Mrs. Foster (smiling at Rosalie). What do you 
think of that? 

Miss Colton. I don't know what to think. 
(She returns to piano.) 

Mrs. Foster. Dunstan, the newspaper man, was 
just here. Everything is all right. He's now try- 
ing to find the Governor, to get an interview. 

Sawyer. I'd like to be present when they meet. 

Mrs. Foster. Isn't it surprising the speed of 
newspaper machinery. It was nearly eight o'clock 
when you gave me those photographic copies. It 
was after eight when I gave them to him. He 
rushed to the city in an automobile. It must have 
taken him nearly an hour. And the paper will be 
in on the next train. 



A Friend of the People m 

Sawyer. That's quick work. 
Mrs. Foster. I'm glad I telephoned you last 
night. 

Sawyer. Yes, you didn't lose much time. 
(Dunstan returns.) 

Dunstan. Well, I can't find him. He has van- 
ished. 

Mrs. Foster. Mr. Dunstan, this is Mr. Sawyer. 
Dunstan. Glad to meet you, sir. 
Sawyer. I'm glad to know you, sir. 
Dunstan (looking at his watch). After twelve. 
Train will be in shortly. 

Mrs. Foster (to Dunstan). Mr. Sawyer is an 
old friend of ours. He knows all. 
Dunstan. Ah. 

Sawyer. I understand you have got hold of 
some interesting news. 

Dunstan (smiling). The biggest piece of news 
I ever got hold of. 

Mrs. Foster. Will the letters be in fac simile? 
Dunstan. They certainly will. Right across 
the front page. Politically Hopkins is as dead as 
a door nail right now. 

Sawyer. And he doesn't know it. 
Dunstan. Nothing for him to do but resign. 
Mrs. Foster. You take a mild view of the sit- 
uation. (To Sawyer.) Don't you think so? 
Sawyer. It's not an extreme view. 
Dunstan. Mrs. Foster, you have rendered a 
great service to the State. 

Mrs. Foster. I don't know about that. After 
all it's a terrible thing to destroy high notions of 
human character. 

Dunstan. I think it a good thing to let the 



112 A Friend of the People 

cocksure people see that what they chiefly need pro- 
tection against is their own judgment. Oh, by the 
way, they've instructed me at the office to get the 
history of the letters. 

Mrs. Foster. The history? 

Dunstan. Yes. You know we've always got to 
be prepared for libel suits. Hopkins may pronounce 
the letters forgeries. He may say it's a frame-up. 
He may accuse Trask. Now if we could be sure 
that we could trace the letters, — explain just how 
they were obtained — 

Mrs. Foster. Is that necessary? 

Dunstan. Is there any objection to — 

Mrs. Foster. Yes, there is. I don't think it 
will be necessary to go into that matter. 

Dunstan. You don't? 

Mrs. Foster. You know the understanding is 
that even my name isn't to be made public. 

Dunstan. Oh, yes — that's sacred. 

Sawyer. He'll not pronounce them forgeries. 

Mrs. Foster. If he were tr pronounce them 
forgeries or attempt to make trouble for the Post, 
then, I'm quite sure, the person who knows all about 
the letters would come forward. But you need not 
be apprehensive on that score. I don't think there'll 
be any fight left in Governor Hopkins. 

Dunstan. He has put up some mighty good 
fights in politics. In fact he has won the reputa- 
tion of a fighter. 

Sawyer. That was when things were coming 
his way. It's easy to fight when you're on top. 
You'll find that Hopkins is a quitter. 

Dunstan. Well, we shall soon see. I'd like to 
know where he is. Do you think he suspects? 

Mrs. Foster. No, he doesn't suspect. 



A Friend of the People 113 

Dunstan. I'll take a run over to his garage and 
see whether his machine is out. ( Goes tozvard door, 
then approaches Miss Colton zvho is examining some 
sheet music.) The more I think of the trip to 
Europe the more I like it. (She smiles. He turns 
to Mrs. Foster.) I'll be back again. (He goes 
out.) 

Mrs. Foster. The Governor hasn't been to the 
office today. And Dunstan has been looking all 
over for him, to interview him. 

Sawyer. Does nobody know where he is. 
Mrs. Foster. His secretary knows. I saw them 
together a little while ago. 
Sawyer. Here ? 

Mrs. Foster. They went out together. I 
thought they were going to the office. Evidently 
the Governor has been drinking. 

Sawyer. Celebrating the recovery of the letters 
perhaps. 

Mrs. Foster. Poor fellow! 
Sawyer. Are you becoming sorry for him? 
Mrs. Foster. There is nothing so dreadful as 
the tragedy of a man's downfall. 

(By this time Miss Colton who has been touching 
the keys of the piano lightly begins playing softly 
Nevin r s Narcissus. Suddenly Governor Hopkins 
appears in the back doorway. His eyes are staring 
wildly into the room. His face is pale. His hat is 
on the back of his head. Clenched in his right hand 
is an open daily paper. He staggers into the room 
glaring alternately at Sawyer and Mrs. Foster, both 
of whom are startled, but they meet his gaze calmly 
and steadfastly. Suddenly his attention is at- 
tracted by the piano. He sees Miss Colton zvnose 
back is turned to him. She is unaware of his pres- 
ence His whole frame trembles with emotion. 



114 A Friend of the People 

The impulse to go to her seizes him, but only for a 
moment. He turns and addresses Mrs. Foster.) 

Hopkins. So this is your work! (He waves 
the paper wildly.) 

(Miss Colton rises and stands in amazement. 
Mrs. Foster and Sawyer face him. There is a long 
pause.) 

Hopkins. I hope you are satisfied! 

Mrs. Foster. You have only yourself to blame. 

Hopkins. Yes (laughs) I am the master of my 
fate. I have been walking a slack wire and I have 
fallen off. (Turns to Miss Colton.) Appearance 
is against me — so what's the use. (To Sawyer.) 
I'm sorry, Ned. 

Sawyer. I hear you destroyed the letters last 
night. 

Hopkins (glowering). Yes, I destroyed them. 
(Subduing his tone.) It's all right, Ned. You've 
turned the trick. It's yours. Take it old man. 

Sawyer. I think it was coming to me. 

Hopkins (his manner now plainly indicating that 
he has been drinking). No, Ned, — not exactly. 
I'd have appointed you. But (turning to Mrs. Fos- 
ter) it's too late — yes, too late. (Looking at Miss 
Colton, and for a moment, weakening.) It's all too 
late. (To Mrs. Foster.) Revenge is sweet, eh? 
(To himself.) And sometimes it's bitter. Well, 
Edith, I'm sorry — very sorry! I did wrong — I 
know — 

Mrs. Foster. To yourself, more than to any- 
body. 

Hopkins (staggers slightly). Yes, — yes, — that's 
true. But now it's all over — and you didn't under- 
stand. (Flaring up.) You don't understand even 
now — but — it's too late. (He walks toward door 
on right.) It's too late. 



A Friend of the People US 

(He goes in.) Miss Colton goes to Mrs. Foster 
and puts an arm round her.) 

Sawyer. As I thought. Not much fight left in 
him. 

(D wist an enters at back.) 

Mrs. Foster. The Governor was just here. 

(A pistol shot is heard. All look tozvard door on 
right.) 

Dunstan. A shot ! 

Sawyer. The end. 

(Dunstan rushes through door on right. A pause. 
Mrs. Foster much agitated sinks into a chair.) 

Mrs. Foster. Do you think that was he? 

Miss Colton. Oh, Aunt Edith, what has hap- 
pened ? 

Sawyer. I think he has inscribed his name on 
the pages of history. 

Mrs. Foster. I didn't think he had the courage. 
(Dunstan reappears. She rises eagerly.) The 
Governor? (Dunstan solemnly nods.) 

(curtain) 



